SONGS  BEFORE    SUNRISE 


BY  ALGERNON  CHARL  IS 


SWINBURNE 


I  EXJJBRB  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  r 

I  i  _    — .  4 


JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

<$>  SAN  FRANCISCO  <$> 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL,  PRESIDENT. 
*    BY"  * 

MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAV 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA ANDROSALYN  RAY 

AND  THE 

RAY  OIL  BURNERCDMPANY 


SAK  FRANCISCO 
NEV7YORK 


nr 

.  **„   ^t 


Ct,Of  this  edition  of  Songs  before  Sunrise 
have  been  printed  on  hand-made  paper 
630  copies,  of  which  47.5  are  for  sale  in  the 
United  Kingdom  and  150  are  for  sale  in  the 
United  States. 

Paper  Copy  No.  J.  1  D  * 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 
SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE 


SONGS  BEFORE 
SUNRISE 

BY 

ALGERNON  CHARLES 
SWINBURNE 


PUBLISHED  FORTHE  FLORENCE 
PRESS  OT  LONDON  BY  HARPER 
&BROTHERS-NEW  YORK*  MCM1X 


DEDICATION 
To  Joseph  Mazzini 

AKE,  since  you  bade  it  should  bear, 
These,  of  the  seed  of  your  sowing, 
Blossom  or  berry  or  weed. 
Sweet  though  they  be  not,  or  fair, 
That  the  dew  of  your  word  kept  growing, 
Sweet  at  least  was  the  seed. 

Men  bring  you  love-offerings  of  tears, 
And  sorrow  the  kiss  that  assuages, 

And  slaves  the  hate-offering  of  wrongs, 
And  time  the  thanksgiving  of  years, 
And  years  the  thanksgiving  of  ages; 
I  bring  you  my  handful  of  songs. 

If  a  perfume  be  left,  if  a  bloom, 
Let  it  live  till  Italia  be  risen, 

To  be  strewn  in  the  dust  of  her  car 
When  her  voice  shall  awake  from  the  tomb 
England,  and  France  from  her  prison, 
Sisters,  a  star  by  a  star. 

I  bring  you  the  sword  of  a  song, 
The  sword  of  my  spirit's  desire, 
Feeble;  but  laid  at  your  feet, 
That  which  was  weak  shall  be  strong, 
That  which  was  cold  shall  take  fire, 
That  which  was  bitter  be  sweet. 


VI) 


It  was  wrought  not  with  hands  to  smite, 
Nor  hewn  after  swordsmiths'  fashion, 

Nor  tempered  on  anvil  of  steel; 
But  with  visions  and  dreams  of  the  night, 
But  with  hope,  &  the  patience  of  passion, 
And  the  signet  of  love  for  a  seal. 

Be  it  witness,  till  one  more  strong, 
Till  a  loftier  lyre,  till  a  rarer 

Lute  praise  her  better  than  I, 
Be  it  witness  before  you,  my  song, 

That  I  knew  her,  the  world's  banner-bearer, 
Who  shall  cry  the  republican  cry. 

Yea,  even  she  as  at  first, 

Yea,  she  alone  and  none  other, 

Shall  cast  down,  shall  build  up,  shall  bring  home ; 
Slake  earth's  hunger  and  thirst, 
Lighten,  and  lead  as  a  mother; 

First  name  of  the  world's  names,  Rome. 


vnj 


CONTENTS 


EDICATION:  To  Joseph 
Mazzini  Page  vij 


D  Prelude 
The  Eve  of  Revolution 
A  Watch  in  the  Night 
Super  Flumina  Babylonis 
The  Halt  before  Rome 
Mentana:  First  Anniversary 
Blessed  among  Women 
The  Litany  of  Nations 
Hertha 

Before  a  Crucifix 
Tenebrae 
Hymn  of  Man 
The  Pilgrims 
Armand  Barbes 
Quia  multum  amavit 
Genesis 

To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 
Christmas  Antiphones 
A  New  Year's  Message 


i 
8 

22 
27 
32 

44 
48 

54 

61 
68 

75 
80 
86 

89 
90 

95 

98 
104 

H5 


Mater  Dolorosa 

Mater  Triumphalis 

A  Marching  Song 

Siena 

Cor  Cordium 

In  San  Lorenzo 

Tiresias 

The  Song  of  the  Standard 

On  the  Downs 

Messidor 

Ode  on  the  Insurrection  in 

Candia 
"Nondolet" 
Eurydice 
An  Appeal 
Perinde  ac  Cadaver 
Monotones 
The  Oblation 
A  Year's  Burden 
Epilogue 
Notes 


Page  117 
120 
126 
134 

144 

145 
146 
160 
162 
168 

171 

180 
181 
182 
186 
190 
192 

193 
196 
208 


IX 


PRELUDE 


ETWEEN  the  green  bud  and  the  red 
Youth  sat  and  sang  by  Time,  and  shed 
From  eyes  and  tresses  flowers  and  tears, 
From  heart  and  spirit  hopes  and  fears. 
Upon  the  hollow  stream  whose  bed 

Is  channelled  by  the  foamless years; 
And  with  the  white  the  gold-haired  head 

Mixed  running  locks,  and  in  Time's  ears 
Youth's  dreams  hung  singing,  and  Time's  truth 
Was  half  not  harsh  in  the  ears  of  Youth. 

Between  the  bud  and  the  blown  flower 
Youth  talked  with  joy  and  grief  an  hour, 

With  footless  joy  and  wingless  grief 

And  twin-born  faith  and  disbelief 
Who  share  the  seasons  to  devour; 

And  long  ere  these  made  up  their  sheaf 
Felt  the  winds  round  him  shake  and  shower 

The  rose-red  and  the  blood-red  leaf, 
Delight  whose  germ  grew  never  grain, 
And  passion  dyed  in  its  own  pain. 


Then  he  stood  up,  and  trod  to  dust 
Fear  and  desire,  mistrust  and  trust, 

And  dreams  of  bitter  sleep  and  sweet, 

And  bound  for  sandals  on  his  feet 
Knowledge  and  patience  of  what  must 

And  what  things  may  be,  in  the  heat 
And  cold  of  years  that  rot  and  rust 

And  alter;  and  his  spirit's  meat 
Was  freedom,  and  his  staff  was  wrought 
Of  strength,  and  his  cloak  woven  of  thought. 

For  what  has  he  whose  will  sees  clear 
To  do  with  doubt  and  faith  and  fear, 

Swift  hopes  and  slow  despondencies? 

His  heart  is  equal  with  the  sea's 
And  with  the  sea- wind's,  and  his  ear 

Is  level  to  the  speech  of  these, 
And  his  soul  communes  and  takes  cheer 

With  the  actual  earth's  equalities, 
Air,  light,  and  night,  hills,  winds,  and  streams, 
And  seeks  not  strength  from  strengthless  dreams. 

His  soul  is  even  with  the  sun 
Whose  spirit  and  whose  eye  are  one, 

Who  seeks  not  stars  by  day,  nor  light 

And  heavy  heat  of  day  by  night. 
Him  can  no  God  cast  down,  whom  none 

Can  lift  in  hope  beyond  the  height 
Of  fate  and  nature  and  things  done 

By  the  calm  rule  of  might  and  right 
That  bids  men  be  and  bear  and  do, 
And  die  beneath  blind  skies  or  blue. 


To  him  the  lights  of  even  and  morn 
Speak  no  vain  things  of  love  or  scorn, 

Fancies  and  passions  miscreate 

By  man  in  things  dispassionate. 
Nor  holds  he  fellowship  forlorn 

With  souls  that  pray  and  hope  and  hate, 
And  doubt  they  had  better  not  been  born, 

And  fain  would  lure  or  scare  off  fate 
And  charm  their  doomsman  from  their  doom 
And  make  fear  dig  its  own  false  tomb. 

He  builds  not  half  of  doubts  and  half 
Of  dreams  his  own  soul's  cenotaph, 

Whence  hopes  and  fears  with  helpless  eyes, 

Wrapt  loose  in  cast-off  cerecloths,  rise 
And  dance  and  wring  their  hands  and  laugh, 

And  weep  thin  tears  and  sigh  light  sighs, 
And  without  living  lips  would  quaff 

The  living  spring  in  man  that  lies, 
And  drain  his  soul  of  faith  and  strength 
It  might  have  lived  on  a  life's  length. 

He  hath  given  himself  and  hath  not  sold 
To  God  for  heaven  or  man  for  gold, 

Or  grief  for  comfort  that  it  gives. 

Or  joy  for  grief's  restoratives. 
He  hath  given  himself  to  time,  whose  fold 

Shuts  in  the  mortal  flock  that  lives 
On  its  plain  pasture's  heat  and  cold 

And  the  equal  year's  alternatives. 
Earth,  heaven,  and  time,  death,  life,  and  he, 
Endure  while  they  shall  be  to  be. 


"Yet  between  death  and  life  are  hours 
To  flush  with  love  and  hide  in  flowers; 

What  profit  save  in  these  ?"  men  cry: 

"Ah,  see,  between  soft  earth  and  sky, 
What  only  good  things  here  are  ours !" 

They  say,  "what  better  wouldst  thou  try, 
What  sweeter  sing  of?  or  what  powers 

Serve,  that  will  give  thee  ere  thou  die 
More  joy  to  sing  and  be  less  sad, 
More  heart  to  play  and  grow  more  glad?" 

Play  then  and  sing;  we  too  have  played, 
We  likewise,  in  that  subtle  shade. 

We  too  have  twisted  through  our  hair 

Such  tendrils  as  the  wild  Loves  wear, 
And  heard  what  mirth  the  Maenads  made, 

Till  the  wind  blew  our  garlands  bare 
And  left  their  roses  disarrayed, 

And  smote  the  summer  with  strange  air, 
And  disengirdled  and  discrowned 
The  limbs  and  locks  that  vine-wreaths  bound. 

We  too  have  tracked  by  star-proof  trees 
The  tempest  of  the  Thyiades 

Scare  the  loud  night  on  hills  that  hid 

The  blood-feasts  of  the  Bassarid, 
Heard  their  song's  iron  cadences 

Fright  the  wolf  hungering  from  the  kid, 
Outroar  the  lion-throated  seas, 

Outchide  the  north-wind  if  it  chid, 
And  hush  the  torrent-tongued  ravines 
With  thunders  of  their  tambourines. 


But  the  fierce  flute  whose  notes  acclaim 
Dim  goddesses  of  fiery  fame, 

Cymbal  and  clamorous  kettledrum, 

Timbrels  and  tabrets,  all  are  dumb 
That  turned  the  high  chill  air  to  flame; 

The  singing  tongues  of  fire  are  numb 
That  called  on  Cotys  by  her  name 

Edonian,  till  they  felt  her  come 
And  maddened,  and  her  mystic  face 
Lightened  along  the  streams  of  Thrace. 

For  Pleasure  slumberless  and  pale, 
And  Passion  with  rejected  veil, 

Pass,  and  the  tempest-footed  throng 

Of  hours  that  follow  them  with  song 
Till  their  feet  flag  and  voices  fail, 

And  lips  that  were  so  loud  so  long 
Learn  silence,  or  a  wearier  wail; 

So  keen  is  change,  and  time  so  strong, 
To  weave  the  robes  of  life  and  rend 
And  weave  again  till  life  have  end. 

But  weak  is  change,  but  strengthless  time, 
To  take  the  light  from  heaven,  or  climb 

The  hills  of  heaven  with  wasting  feet. 

Songs  they  can  stop  that  earth  found  meet, 
But  the  stars  keep  their  ageless  rhyme; 

Flowers  they  can  slay  that  spring  thought  sweet, 
But  the  stars  keep  their  spring  sublime; 

Passions  and  pleasures  can  defeat, 
Actions  and  agonies  control, 
And  life  and  death,  but  not  the  soul. 


Because  man's  soul  is  man's  God  still, 
What  wind  soever  waft  his  will 

Across  the  waves  of  day  and  night 

To  port  or  shipwreck,  left  or  right, 
By  shores  and  shoals  of  good  and  ill; 

And  still  its  flame  at  mainmast  height 
Through  the  rent  air  that  foam-flakes  fill 

Sustains  the  indomitable  light 
Whence  only  man  hath  strength  to  steer 
Or  helm  to  handle  without  fear. 

Save  his  own  soul's  light  overhead, 
None  leads  him,  and  none  ever  led, 

Across  birth's  hidden  harbour-bar, 

Past  youth  where  shoreward  shallows  are, 
Through  age  that  drives  on  toward  the  red 

Vast  void  of  sunset  hailed  from  far, 
To  the  equal  waters  of  the  dead; 

Save  his  own  soul  he  hath  no  star, 
And  sinks,  except  his  own  soul  guide, 
Helmless  in  middle  turn  of  tide. 

No  blast  of  air  or  fire  of  sun 

Puts  out  the  light  whereby  we  run 

With  girded  loins  our  lamplit  race, 

And  each  from  each  takes  heart  of  grace 
And  spirit  till  his  turn  be  done, 

And  light  of  face  from  each  man's  face 
In  whom  the  light  of  trust  is  one; 

Since  only  souls  that  keep  their  place 
By  their  own  light,  and  watch  things  roll, 
And  stand,  have  light  for  any  soul. 


A  little  time  we  gain  from  time 
To  set  our  seasons  in  some  chime, 

For  harsh  or  sweet  or  loud  or  low, 

With  seasons  played  out  long  ago 
And  souls  that  in  their  time  and  prime 

Took  part  with  summer  or  with  snow, 
Lived  abject  lives  out  or  sublime, 

And  had  their  chance  of  seed  to  sow 
For  service  or  disservice  done 
To  those  days  dead  and  this  their  son. 

A  little  time  that  we  may  fill 

Or  with  such  good  works  or  such  ill 

As  loose  the  bonds  or  make  them  strong 

Wherein  all  manhood  suffers  wrong. 
By  rose-hung  river  and  light-foot  rill 

There  are  who  rest  not;  who  think  long 
Till  they  discern  as  from  a  hill 

At  the  sun's  hour  of  morning  song, 
Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free, 
The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea. 


THE  EVE  OF  REVOLUTION 


THE  TRUMPETS  of  the  four  winds  of  the 
world 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth  blow  battle;  the 
night  heaves, 
With  breasts  palpitating  and  wings  refurled, 

With  passion  of  couched  limbs,  as  one  who  grieves 
Sleeping,  and  in  her  sleep  she  sees  uncurled 

Dreams  serpent-shapen,  such  as  sickness  weaves, 
Down  the  wild  wind  of  vision  caught  and  whirled, 
Dead  leaves  of  sleep,  thicker  than  autumn  leaves, 
Shadows  of  storm-shaped  things, 
Flights  of  dim  tribes  of  kings, 
The  reaping  men  that  reap  men  for  their  sheaves, 
And,  without  grain  to  yield, 
Their  scythe-swept  harvest-field 
Thronged  thick  with  men  pursuing  and  fugitives, 

Dead  foliage  of  the  tree  of  sleep, 
Leaves  blood-coloured  and  golden,  blown  from  deep 
to  deep. 


8 


•  • 

11 

I  hear  the  midnight  on  the  mountains  cry 

With  many  tongues  of  thunders,  and  I  hear 
Sound  and  resound  the  hollow  shield  of  sky 

With  trumpet-throated  winds  that  charge  and  cheer, 
And  through  the  roar  of  the  hours  that  fighting  fly, 

Through  flight  and  fight  and  all  the  fluctuant  fear, 
A  sound  sublimer  than  the  heavens  are  high, 
A  voice  more  instant  than  the  winds  are  clear, 
Say  to  my  spirit,  "Take 
Thy  trumpet  too,  and  make 
A  rallying  music  in  the  void  night's  ear, 
Till  the  storm  lose  its  track, 
And  all  the  night  go  back; 
Till,  as  through  sleep  false  life  knows  true  life  near, 

Thou  know  the  morning  through  the  night, 
And  through  the  thunder  silence,  &  through  darkness  light." 

iii 
I  set  the  trumpet  to  my  lips  and  blow. 

The  height  of  night  is  shaken,  the  skies  break, 
The  winds  and  stars  and  waters  come  and  go 

By  fits  of  breath  and  light  and  sound,  that  wake 
As  out  of  sleep,  and  perish  as  the  show 

Built  up  of  sleep,  when  all  her  strengths  forsake 
The  sense-compelling  spirit;  the  depths  glow, 

The  heights  flash,  and  the  roots  and  summits  shake 
Of  earth  in  all  her  mountains, 
And  the  inner  foamless  fountains 
And  wellsprings  of  her  fast-bound  forces  quake; 
Yea,  the  whole  air  of  life 
Is  set  on  fire  of  strife, 
Till  change  unmake  things  made  and  love  remake; 

Reason  and  love,  whose  names  are  one, 
Seeing  reason  is  the  sunlight  shed  from  love  the  sun. 


*  iv 

The  night  is  broken  eastward;  is  it  day, 

Or  but  the  watchfires  trembling  here  and  there, 
Like  hopes  on  memory's  devastated  way, 

In  moonless  wastes  of  planet-stricken  air? 
O  many-childed  mother  great  and  grey, 

O  multitudinous  bosom,  and  breasts  that  bare 
Our  fathers'  generations,  whereat  lay 
The  weanling  peoples  and  the  tribes  that  were, 
Whose  new-born  mouths  long  dead 
Those  ninefold  nipples  fed, 
Dim  face  with  deathless  eyes  and  withered  hair, 
Fostress  of  obscure  lands, 
Whose  multiplying  hands 
Wove  the  world's  web  with  divers  races  fair 

And  cast  it  waif- wise  on  the  stream, 
The  waters  of  the  centuries,  where  thou  sat'st  to  dream; 

v 
O  many-minded  mother  and  visionary, 

Asia,  that  sawest  their  westering  waters  sweep 
With  all  the  ships  and  spoils  of  time  to  carry 
And  all  the  fears  and  hopes  of  life  to  keep, 
Thy  vesture  wrought  of  ages  legendary 

Hides  usward  thine  impenetrable  sleep, 
And  thy  veiled  head,  night's  oldest  tributary, 
We  know  not  if  it  speak  or  smile  or  weep. 
But  where  for  us  began 
The  first  live  light  of  man 
And  first-born  fire  of  deeds  to  burn  and  leap, 
The  first  war  fair  as  peace 
To  shine  and  lighten  Greece, 
And  the  first  freedom  moved  upon  the  deep, 

God's  breath  upon  the  face  of  time 
Moving,  a  present  spirit,  seen  of  men  sublime; 


10 


VI 

There  where  our  east  looks  always  to  thy  west, 

Our  mornings  to  thine  evenings,  Greece  to  thee, 
These  lights  that  catch  the  mountains  crest  by  crest, 

Are  they  of  stars  or  beacons  that  we  see? 
Taygetus  takes  here  the  winds  abreast, 

And  there  the  sun  resumes  Thermopylae; 
The  light  is  Athens  where  those  remnants  rest, 
And  Salamis  the  sea-wall  of  that  sea. 
The  grass  men  tread  upon 
Is  very  Marathon, 

The  leaves  are  of  that  time-unstricken  tree 
That  storm  nor  sun  can  fret 
Nor  wind,  since  she  that  set 
Made  it  her  sign  to  men  whose  shield  was  she; 

Here,  as  dead  time  his  deathless  things, 
Eurotas  and  Cephisus  keep  their  sleepless  springs. 

vii 
O  hills  of  Crete,  are  these  things  dead  ?  O  waves, 

O  many-mouthed  streams,  are  these  springs  dry? 
Earth,  dost  thou  feed  and  hide  now  none  but  slaves? 

Heaven,  hast  thou  heard  of  men  that  would  not  die? 
Is  the  land  thick  with  only  such  men's  graves 

As  were  ashamed  to  look  upon  the  sky? 
Ye  dead,  whose  name  outfaces  and  outbraves 
Death,  is  the  seed  of  such  as  you  gone  by? 
Sea,  have  thy  ports  not  heard 
Some  Marathonian  word 
Rise  up  to  landward  and  to  Godward  fly? 
No  thunder,  that  the  skies 
Sent  not  upon  us,  rise 
With  fire  and  earthquake  and  a  cleaving  cry? 

Nay,  light  is  here,  and  shall  be  light, 
Though  all  the  face  of  the  hour  be  overborne  with  night. 


ii 


•  •  • 

Vlll 

I  set  the  trumpet  to  my  lips  and  blow. 

The  night  is  broken  northward;  the  pale  plains 
And  footless  fields  of  sun -forgotten  snow 

Feel  through  their  creviced  lips  and  iron  veins 
Such  quick  breath  labour  and  such  clean  blood  flow 

As  summer-stricken  spring  feels  in  her  pains 
When  dying  May  bears  June,  too  young  to  know 
The  fruit  that  waxes  from  the  flower  that  wanes; 
Strange  tyrannies  and  vast, 
Tribes  frost-bound  to  their  past, 

Lands  that  are  loud  all  through  their  length  with  chains, 
Wastes  where  the  wind's  wings  break, 
Displumed  by  daylong  ache 
And  anguish  of  blind  snows  and  rack-blown  rains, 

And  ice  that  seals  the  White  Sea's  lips, 
Whose  monstrous  weights  crush  flat  the  sides  of  shrieking  ships; 

ix 
Horrible  sights  and  sounds  of  the  unreached  pole, 

And  shrill  fierce  climes  of  inconsolable  air, 
Shining  below  the  beamless  aureole 

That  hangs  about  the  north-wind's  hurtling  hair, 
A  comet-lighted  lamp,  sublime  and  sole 

Dawn  of  the  dayless  heaven  where  suns  despair; 
Earth,  skies,  and  waters,  smitten  into  soul, 
Feel  the  hard  veil  that  iron  centuries  wear 
Rent  as  with  hands  in  sunder, 
Such  hands  as  make  the  thunder 
And  clothe  with  form  all  substance  and  strip  bare; 
Shapes,  shadows,  sounds  and  lights 
Of  their  dead  days  and  nights 
Take  soul  of  life  too  keen  for  death  to  bear; 

Life,  conscience,  forethought,  will,  desire, 
Flood  men's  inanimate  eyes  and  dry-drawn  hearts  with  fire. 


12 


X 

Light,  light,  and  light!  to  break  and  melt  in  sunder 
All  clouds  and  chains  that  in  one  bondage  bind 
Eyes,  hands,  and  spirits,  forged  by  fear  and  wonder 
And  sleek  fierce  fraud  with  hidden  knife  behind; 
There  goes  no  fire  from  heaven  before  their  thunder, 

Nor  are  the  links  not  malleable  that  wind 
Round  the  snared  limbs  and  souls  that  ache  thereunder; 
The  hands  are  mighty,  were  the  head  not  blind. 
Priest  is  the  staff  of  king, 
And  chains  and  clouds  one  thing, 
And  fettered  flesh  with  devastated  mind. 
Open  thy  soul  to  see, 
Slave,  and  thy  feet  are  free; 
Thy  bonds  and  thy  beliefs  are  one  in  kind, 

And  of  thy  fears  thine  irons  wrought 
Hang  weights  upon  thee  fashioned  out  of  thine  own  thought. 

xi 
O  soul,  O  God,  O  glory  of  liberty, 

To  night  and  day  their  lightning  and  their  light! 
With  heat  of  heart  thou  kindlest  the  quick  sea, 

And  the  dead  earth  takes  spirit  from  thy  sight; 
The  natural  body  of  things  is  warm  with  thee, 

And  the  world's  weakness  parcel  of  thy  might; 
Thou  seest  us  feeble  and  forceless,  fit  to  be 
Slaves  of  the  years  that  drive  us  left  and  right, 
Drowned  under  hours  like  waves 
Wherethrough  we  row  like  slaves; 
But  if  thy  finger  touch  us,  these  take  flight. 
If  but  one  sovereign  word 
Of  thy  live  lips  be  heard, 
What  man  shall  stop  us,  and  what  God  shall  smite? 

Do  thou  but  look  in  our  dead  eyes, 
They  are  stars  that  light  each  other  till  thy  sundawn  rise. 


xii 
Thou  art  the  eye  of  this  blind  body  of  man, 

The  tongue  of  this  dumb  people;  shalt  thou  not 
See,  shalt  thou  speak  not  for  them?  Time  is  wan 

And  hope  is  weak  with  waiting,  and  swift  thought 
Hath  lost  the  wings  at  heel  wherewith  he  ran, 

And  on  the  red  pit's  edge  sits  down  distraught 
To  talk  with  death  of  days  republican 

And  dreams  and  fights  long  since  dreamt  out  and  fought; 
Of  the  last  hope  that  drew 
To  that  red  edge  anew 
The  fire  white  faith  of  Poland  without  spot; 
Of  the  blind  Russian  might, 
And  fire  that  is  not  light; 
Of  the  green  Rhineland  where  thy  spirit  wrought; 

But  though  time,  hope,  and  memory  tire, 
Canst  thou  wax  dark  as  they  do,  thou  whose  light  is  fire? 

xiii 
I  set  the  trumpet  to  my  lips  and  blow. 

The  night  is  broken  westward;  the  wide  sea 
That  makes  immortal  motion  to  and  fro 

From  world's  end  unto  world's  end,  and  shall  be 
When  nought  now  grafted  of  men's  hands  shall  grow 

And  as  the  weed  in  last  year's  waves  are  we 
Or  spray  the  sea- wind  shook  a  year  ago 

From  its  sharp  tresses  down  the  storm  to  lee, 
The  moving  god  that  hides 
Time  in  its  timeless  tides 
Wherein  time  dead  seems  live  eternity, 
That  breaks  and  makes  again 
Much  mightier  things  than  men, 
Doth  it  not  hear  change  coming,  or  not  see? 
Are  the  deeps  deaf  and  dead  and  blind, 
To  catch  no  light  or  sound  from  landward  of  mankind? 


XIV 

O  thou,  clothed  round  with  raiment  of  white  waves, 

Thy  brave  brows  lightening  through  the  grey  wet  air, 
Thou,  lulled  with  sea-sounds  of  a  thousand  caves, 

And  lit  with  sea-shine  to  thine  inland  lair, 
Whose  freedom  clothed  the  naked  souls  of  slaves 
And  stripped  the  muffled  souls  of  tyrants  bare, 
O,  by  the  centuries  of  thy  glorious  graves, 

By  the  live  light  of  the  earth  that  was  thy  care, 
Live,  thou  must  not  be  dead, 
Live;  let  thine  armed  head 
Lift  itself  up  to  sunward  and  the  fair 
Daylight  of  time  and  man, 
Thine  head  republican, 
With  the  same  splendour  on  thine  helmless  hair 

That  in  his  eyes  kept  up  a  light 
Who  on  thy  glory  gazed  away  their  sacred  sight; 

xv 
Who  loved  and  looked  their  sense  to  death  on  thee; 

Who  taught  thy  lips  imperishable  things, 
And  in  thine  ears  outsang  thy  singing  sea; 

Who  made  thy  foot  firm  on  the  necks  of  kings 
And  thy  soul  somewhile  steadfast -woe  are  we 

It  was  but  for  a  while,  and  all  the  strings 
Were  broken  of  thy  spirit;  yet  had  he 

Set  to  such  tunes  and  clothed  it  with  such  wings 
It  seemed  for  his  sole  sake 
Impossible  to  break, 

And  woundless  of  the  worm  that  waits  and  stings, 
The  golden-headed  worm 
Made  headless  fora  term, 
The  king-snake  whose  life  kindles  with  the  spring's, 

To  breathe  his  soul  upon  her  bloom, 
And  while  she  marks  not  turn  her  temple  to  her  tomb. 


XVI 

By  those  eyes  blinded  and  that  heavenly  head 

And  the  secluded  soul  adorable, 
O  Milton's  land,  what  ails  thee  to  be  dead? 
Thine  ears  are  yet  sonorous  with  his  shell 
That  all  the  songs  of  all  thy  sea-line  fed 

With  motive  sound  of  spring-tides  at  mid  swell, 
And  through  thine  heart  his  thought  as  blood  is  shed, 
Requickening  thee  with  wisdom  to  do  well; 
Such  sons  were  of  thy  womb, 
England,  for  love  of  whom 
Thy  name  is  not  yet  writ  with  theirs  that  fell, 
But,  till  thou  quite  forget 
What  were  thy  children,  yet 
On  the  pale  lips  of  hope  is  as  a  spell; 

And  Shelley's  heart  and  Landor's  mind 
Lit  thee  with  latter  watch-fires;  why  wilt  thou  be  blind  ? 

xvii 
Though  all  were  else  indifferent,  all  that  live      , 

Spiritless  shapes  of  nations;  though  time  wait 
In  vain  on  hope  till  these  have  help  to  give, 

And  faith  and  love  crawl  famished  from  the  gate ; 
Canst  thou  sit  shamed  and  self-contemplative 

With  soulless  eyes  on  thy  secluded  fate? 
Though  time  forgive  them,  thee  shall  he  forgive, 
Whose  choice  was  in  thine  hand  to  be  so  great? 
Who  cast  out  of  thy  mind 
The  passion  of  man's  kind, 
And  made  thee  and  thine  old  name  separate? 
Now  when  time  looks  to  see 
New  names  and  old  and  thee 
Build  up  our  one  Republic  state  by  state, 

England  with  France,  and  France  with  Spain, 
And  Spain  with  sovereign  Italy  strike  hands  and  reign. 


16 


XV111 

O  known  and  unknown  fountain-heads  that  fill 

Our  dear  life-springs  of  England!  O  bright  race 
Of  streams  and  waters  that  bear  witness  still 

To  the  earth  her  sons  were  made  of!  O  fair  face 
Of  England,  watched  of  eyes  death  cannot  kill, 

How  should  the  soul  that  lit  you  for  a  space 
Fall  through  sick  weakness  of  a  broken  will 
To  the  dead  cold  damnation  of  disgrace? 
Such  wind  of  memory  stirs 
On  all  green  hills  of  hers, 
Such  breath  of  record  from  so  high  a  place, 
From  years  whose  tongues  of  flame 
Prophesied  in  her  name 
Her  feet  should  keep  truth's  bright  and  burning  trace, 

We  needs  must  have  her  heart  with  us, 
Whose  hearts  are  one  with  man's;  she  must  be  dead  or  thus. 

xix 
Who  is  against  us?  who  is  on  our  side? 

Whose  heart  of  all  men's  hearts  is  one  with  man's? 
Where  art  thou  that  wast  prophetess  and  bride, 

When  truth  and  thou  trod  under  time  and  chance? 
What  latter  light  of  what  new  hope  shall  guide 
Out  of  the  snares  of  hell  thy  feet,  O  France? 
What  heel  shall  bruise  these  heads  that  hiss  and  glide, 
What  wind  blow  out  these  fen-born  fires  that  dance 
Before  thee  to  thy  death? 
No  light,  no  life,  no  breath, 

From  thy  dead  eyes  and  lips  shall  take  the  trance, 
Till  on  that  deadliest  crime 
Reddening  the  feet  of  time 
Who  treads  through  blood  and  passes,  time  shall  glance 

Pardon,  and  Italy  forgive, 
And  Rome  arise  up  whom  thou  slewest,  and  bid  thee  live. 


17 


XX 

I  set  the  trumpet  to  my  lips  and  blow. 

The  night  is  broken  southward;  the  springs  run, 
The  day-springs  and  the  watersprings  that  flow 

Forth  with  one  will  from  where  their  source  was  one, 
Out  of  the  might  of  morning:  high  and  low, 

The  hungering  hills  feed  full  upon  the  sun, 
The  thirsting  valleys  drink  of  him  and  glow 
As  a  heart  burns  with  some  divine  thing  done, 
Or  as  blood  burns  again 
In  the  bruised  heart  of  Spain, 
A  rose  renewed  with  red  new  life  begun, 

Dragged  down  with  thorns  and  briers, 
That  puts  forth  buds  like  fires 
Till  the  whole  tree  take  flower  in  unison, 

And  prince  that  clogs  and  priest  that  clings 
Be  cast  as  weeds  upon  the  dunghill  of  dead  things. 

xxi 

Ah  heaven,  bow  down,  be  nearer!  This  is  she, 
Italia,  the  world's  wonder,  the  world's  care, 
Free  in  her  heart  ere  quite  her  hands  be  free, 
And  lovelier  than  her  loveliest  robe  of  air. 
The  earth  hath  voice,  and  speech  is  in  the  sea, 

Sounds  of  great  joy,  too  beautiful  to  bear; 
All  things  are  glad  because  of  her,  but  we 

Most  glad,  who  loved  her  when  the  worst  days  were. 
O  sweetest,  fairest,  first, 
O  flower,  when  times  were  worst, 
Thou  hadst  no  stripe  wherein  we  had  no  share. 
Have  not  our  hearts  held  close, 
Kept  fast  the  whole  world's  rose? 
Have  we  not  worn  thee  at  heart  whom  none  would  wear? 

First  love  and  last  love,  light  of  lands, 
Shall  we  not  touch  thee  full-blown  with  our  lips  and  hands? 


18 


xxii 
O  too  much  loved,  what  shall  we  say  of  thee? 

What  shall  we  make  of  our  heart's  burning  fire, 
The  passion  in  our  lives  that  fain  would  be 
Made  each  a  brand  to  pile  into  the  pyre 
That  shall  burn  up  thy  foemen,  and  set  free 

The  flame  whence  thy  sun-shadowing  wings  aspire? 
Love  of  our  life,  what  more  than  men  are  we, 
That  this  our  breath  for  thy  sake  should  expire, 
For  whom  to  joyous  death 
Glad  gods  might  yield  their  breath, 
Great  gods  drop  down  from  heaven  to  serve  for  hire? 
We  are  but  men,  are  we, 
And  thou  art  Italy; 
What  shall  we  do  for  thee  with  our  desire? 

What  gift  shall  we  deserve  to  give? 
How  shall  we  die  to  do  thee  service,  or  how  live? 

xxiii 
The  very  thought  in  us  how  much  we  love  thee 

Makes  the  throat  sob  with  love  and  blinds  the  eyes. 
How  should  love  bear  thee,  to  behold  above  thee 

His  own  light  burning  from  reverberate  skies? 
They  give  thee  light,  but  the  light  given  them  of  thee 

Makes  faint  the  wheeling  fires  that  fall  and  rise. 
What  love,  what  life,  what  death  of  man's  should  move  thee, 
What  face  that  lingers  or  what  foot  that  flies? 
It  is  not  heaven  that  lights 
Thee  with  such  days  and  nights, 
But  thou  that  heaven  is  lit  from  in  such  wise. 
O  thou  her  dearest  birth, 
Turn  thee  to  lighten  earth, 
Earth  too  that  bore  thee  and  yearns  to  thee  and  cries; 

Stand  up,  shine,  lighten,  become  flame, 
Till  as  the  sun's  name  through  all  nations  be  thy  name. 


XXIV 

I  take  the  trumpet  from  my  lips  and  sing. 

O  life  immeasurable  and  imminent  love, 
And  fear  like  winter  leading  hope  like  spring, 

Whose  flower-bright  brows  the  day-star  sits  above, 
Whose  hand  unweariable  and  untiring  wing 

Strike  music  from  a  world  that  wailed  and  strove, 
Each  bright  soul  born  and  every  glorious  thing, 
From  very  freedom  to  man's  joy  thereof, 
O  time,  O  change  and  death, 
Whose  now  not  hateful  breath 
But  gives  the  music  swifter  feet  to  move 
Through  sharp  remeasuring  tones 
Of  refluent  antiphones 
More  tender-tuned  than  heart  or  throat  of  dove, 

Soul  into  soul,  song  into  song, 
Life  changing  into  life,  by  laws  that  work  not  wrong; 

XXV 

O  natural  force  in  spirit  and  sense,  that  art 

One  thing  in  all  things,  fruit  of  thine  own  fruit, 
O  thought  illimitable  and  infinite  heart 

Whose  blood  is  life  in  limbs  indissolute 
That  still  keeps  hurtless  thine  invisible  part 

And  inextirpable  thy  viewless  root 
Whence  all  sweet  shafts  of  green  and  each  thy  dart 
Of  sharpening  leaf  and  bud  resundering  shoot; 
Hills  that  the  day-star  hails, 
Heights  that  the  first  beam  scales, 
And  heights  that  souls  outshining  suns  salute, 
Valleys  for  each  mouth  born 
Free  now  of  plenteous  corn, 
Waters  and  woodlands  musical  or  mute; 

Free  winds  that  brighten  brows  as  free, 
And  thunder  and  laughter  and  lightning  of  the  sovereign  sea; 


20 


xxvi 
Rivers  and  springs,  and  storms  that  seek  your  prey 

With  strong  wings  ravening  through  the  skies  by  night; 
Spirits  and  stars  that  hold  one  choral  way; 

O  light  of  heaven,  and  thou  the  heavenlier  light 
Aflame  above  the  souls  of  men  that  sway 

All  generations  of  all  years  with  might; 
O  sunrise  of  the  repossessing  day, 
And  sunrise  of  all-renovating  right; 
And  thou,  whose  trackless  foot 
Mocks  hope's  or  fear's  pursuit, 
Swift  Revolution,  changing  depth  with  height; 
And  thou,  whose  mouth  makes  one 
All  songs  that  seek  the  sun, 
Serene  Republic  of  a  world  made  white; 

Thou,  Freedom,  whence  the  soul's  springs  ran; 
Praise  earth  for  man's  sake  living,  and  for  earth's  sake  man. 

xxvii 

Make  yourselves  wings,  O  tarrying  feet  of  fate, 
And  hidden  hour  that  hast  our  hope  to  bear, 
A  child-god,  through  the  morning-coloured  gate 

That  lets  love  in  upon  the  golden  air, 
Dead  on  whose  threshold  lies  heart-broken  hate, 

Dead  discord,  dead  injustice,  dead  despair; 
O  love  long  looked  for,  wherefore  wilt  thou  wait, 
And  shew  not  yet  the  dawn  on  thy  bright  hair, 
Not  yet  thine  hand  released 
Refreshing  the  faint  east, 

Thine  hand  reconquering  heaven,  to  seat  man  there? 
Come  forth,  be  born  and  live, 
Thou  that  hast  help  to  give 
And  light  to  make  man's  day  of  manhood  fair: 

With  flight  outflying  the  sphered  sun, 
Hasten  thine  hour  and  halt  not,  till  thy  work  be  done. 


21 


A  WATCH  IN  THE  NIGHT 


ATCHMAN,  what  of  the  night?- 
Storm  and  thunder  and  rain, 
Lights  that  waver  and  wane, 
Leaving  the  watchfires  unlit. 
Only  the  balefires  are  bright, 

And  the  flash  of  the  lamps  now  &  then 
From  a  palace  where  spoilers  sit, 
Trampling  the  children  of  men. 

ii 

Prophet,  what  of  the  night?- 
I  stand  by  the  verge  of  the  sea, 
Banished,  uncomforted,  free, 
Hearing  the  noise  of  the  waves 
And  sudden  flashes  that  smite 

Some  man's  tyrannous  head, 
Thundering,  heard  among  graves 
That  hide  the  hosts  of  his  dead. 

iii 

Mourners,  what  of  the  night?- 
All  night  through  without  sleep 
We  weep,  &  we  weep,  &  we  weep. 
Who  shallgive  us  our  sons? 
Beaks  of  raven  and  kite, 

Mouths  of  wolf  and  of  hound, 
Give  us  them  back  whom  the  guns 
Shot  for  you  dead  on  the  ground. 


22 


IV 

Dead  men,  what  of  the  night?- 

Cannon  and  scaffold  and  sword, 

Horror  of  gibbet  and  cord, 
Mowed  us  as  sheaves  for  the  grave, 
Mowed  us  down  for  the  right. 

We  do  not  grudge  or  repent. 
Freely  to  freedom  we  gave 

Pledges,  till  life  should  be  spent. 

v 
Statesman,  what  of  the  night?- 

The  night  will  last  me  my  time. 

The  gold  on  a  crown  or  a  crime 
Looks  well  enough  yet  by  the  lamps. 
Have  we  not  fingers  to  write, 

Lips  to  swear  at  a  need? 
Then,  when  danger  decamps, 

Bury  the  word  with  the  deed. 

vi 
Warrior,  what  of  the  night?- 

Whether  it  be  not  or  be 

Night,  is  as  one  thing  to  me. 
I  for  one,  at  the  least, 
Ask  not  of  dews  if  they  blight, 

Ask  not  of  flames  if  they  slay, 
Ask  not  of  prince  or  of  priest 

How  long  ere  we  put  them  away. 

vii 
Master,  what  of  the  night?- 

Child,  night  is  not  at  all 

Anywhere,  fallen  or  to  fall, 
Save  in  our  star-stricken  eyes. 
Forth  of  our  eyes  it  takes  flight, 

Look  we  but  once  nor  before 
Nor  behind  us,  but  straight  on  the  skies; 

Night  is  not  then  any  more. 


23 


Vlll 

Exile,  what  of  the  night?- 

The  tides  and  the  hours  run  out, 

The  seasons  of  death  and  of  doubt, 
The  night-watches  bitter  and  sore. 
In  the  quicksands  leftward  and  right 

My  feet  sink  down  under  me; 
But  I  know  the  scents  of  the  shore 

And  the  broad  blown  breaths  of  the  sea. 

ix 
Captives,  what  of  the  night?- 

It  rains  outside  overhead 

Always,  a  rain  that  is  red, 
And  our  faces  are  soiled  with  the  rain. 
Here  in  the  seasons'  despite 

Day-time  and  night-time  are  one, 
Till  the  curse  of  the  kings  and  the  chain 

Break,  and  their  toils  be  undone. 

x 
Christian,  what  of  the  night?- 

I  cannot  tell;  I  am  blind. 

I  halt  and  hearken  behind 
If  haply  the  hours  will  go  back 
And  return  to  the  dear  dead  light, 

To  the  watchfires  and  stars  that  of  old 
Shone  where  the  sky  now  is  black, 

Glowed  where  the  earth  now  is  cold. 

xi 
High  priest,  what  of  the  night?- 

The  night  is  horrible  here 

With  haggard  faces  and  fear, 
Blood,  and  the  burning  of  fire. 
Mine  eyes  are  emptied  of  sight, 

Mine  hands  are  full  of  the  dust. 
If  the  God  of  my  faith  be  a  liar, 

Who  is  it  that  I  shall  trust? 


Xll 

Princes,  what  of  the  night?- 

Night  with  pestilent  breath 

Feeds  us,  children  of  death, 
Clothes  us  close  with  her  gloom. 
Rapine  and  famine  and  fright 

Crouch  at  our  feet  and  are  fed. 
Earth  where  we  pass  is  a  tomb, 

Life  where  we  triumph  is  dead. 

xiii 
Martyrs,  what  of  the  night?- 

Nay,  is  it  night  with  you  yet? 

We,  for  our  part,  we  forget 
What  night  was,  if  it  were. 
The  loud  red  mouths  of  the  fight 

Are  silent  and  shut  where  we  are. 
In  our  eyes  the  tempestuous  air 

Shines  as  the  face  of  a  star. 

xiv 
England,  what  of  the  night?- 

Night  is  for  slumber  and  sleep, 

Warm,  no  season  to  weep. 
Let  me  alone  till  the  day. 
Sleep  would  I  still  if  I  might, 

Who  have  slept  for  two  hundred  years. 
Once  I  had  honour,  they  say; 

But  slumber  is  sweeter  than  tears. 

xv 
France,  what  of  the  night?- 

Night  is  the  prostitute's  noon, 

Kissed  and  drugged  till  she  swoon, 
Spat  upon,  trod  upon,  whored. 
With  bloodred  rose-garlands  dight, 

Round  me  reels  in  the  dance 
Death,  my  saviour,  my  lord, 

Crowned;  there  is  no  more  France. 


XVI 

Italy,  what  of  the  night?- 

Ah,  child,  child,  it  is  long! 

Moonbeam  and  starbeam  and  song 
Leave  it  dumb  now  and  dark. 
Yet  I  perceive  on  the  height 

Eastward,  not  now  very  far, 
A  song  too  loud  for  the  lark, 

A  light  too  strong  for  a  star. 

xvii 
Germany,  what  of  the  night?- 

Long  has  it  lulled  me  with  dreams; 

Now  at  midwatch,  as  it  seems, 
Light  is  brought  back  to  mine  eyes, 
And  the  mastery  of  old  and  the  might 

Lives  in  the  joints  of  mine  hands, 
Steadies  my  limbs  as  they  rise, 

Strengthens  my  foot  as  it  stands. 

xviii 
Europe,  what  of  the  night?- 

Ask  of  heaven,  and  the  sea, 

And  my  babes  on  the  bosom  of  me, 
Nations  of  mine,  butungrown. 
There  is  one  who  shall  surely  requite 

All  that  endure  or  that  err: 
She  can  answer  alone: 

Ask  not  of  me,  but  of  her. 

xix 
Liberty,  what  of  the  night?- 

I  feel  not  the  red  rains  fall, 

Hear  not  the  tempest  at  all, 
Nor  thunder  in  heaven  any  more. 
All  the  distance  is  white 

With  the  soundless  feet  of  the  sun. 
Night,  with  the  woes  that  it  wore, 

Night  is  over  and  done. 


26 


SUPER  FLUMINA  BABYLONIS 


Y  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept, 

Remembering  thee, 

That  for  ages  of  agony  hast  endured,  and  slept, 
And  wouldst  not  see. 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  stood  up  and  sang, 

Considering  thee, 
That  a  blast  of  deliverance  in  the  darkness  rang, 

To  set  thee  free. 

And  with  trumpets  and  thunderings  and  with  morning  song 

Came  up  the  light; 
And  thy  spirit  uplifted  thee  to  forget  thy  wrong 

As  day  doth  night. 

And  thy  sons  were  dejected  not  any  more,  as  then 

When  thou  wast  shamed; 
When  thy  lovers  went  heavily  without  heart,  as  men 

Whose  life  was  maimed. 

In  the  desolate  distances,  with  a  great  desire, 

For  thy  love's  sake, 
With  our  hearts  going  back  to  thee,  they  were  filled  with  fire, 

Were  nigh  to  break. 

It  was  said  to  us:  "Verily ye  are  great  of  heart, 

But  ye  shall  bend; 
Ye  are  bondmen  and  bondwomen,  to  be  scourged  and  smart, 

To  toil  and  tend.' 


27 


And  with  harrows  men  harrowed  us,  and  subdued  with  spears, 

And  crushed  with  shame; 
And  the  summer  and  winter  was,  and  the  length  of  years, 

And  no  change  came. 

By  the  rivers  of  Italy,  by  the  sacred  streams, 

By  town,  by  tower, 
There  was  feasting  with  revelling,  there  was  sleep  with  dreams, 

Until  thine  hour. 

And  they  slept  and  they  rioted  on  their  rose-hung  beds, 

With  mouths  on  flame, 
And  with  love-locks  vine-chapleted,  and  with  rose-crowned  heads 

And  robes  of  shame. 

And  they  knew  not  their  forefathers,  nor  the  hills  and  streams 

And  words  of  power, 
Nor  the  gods  that  were  good  to  them,  but  with  songs  and  dreams 

Filled  up  their  hour. 

By  the  rivers  of  Italy,  by  the  dry  streams'  beds, 

When  thy  time  came, 
There  was  casting  of  crowns  from  them,  from  their  young  men's  heads, 

The  crowns  of  shame. 

By  the  horn  of  Eridanus,  by  the  Tiber  mouth, 

As  thy  day  rose, 
They  arose  up  and  girded  them  to  the  north  and  south, 

By  seas,  by  snows. 

As  a  water  in  January  the  frost  confines, 

Thy  kings  bound  thee; 
As  a  water  in  April  is,  in  the  new-blown  vines, 

Thy  sons  made  free. 


28 


And  thy  lovers  that  looked  for  thee,  and  that  mourned  from  far, 

For  thy  sake  dead, 
We  rejoiced  in  the  light  of  thee,  in  the  signal  star 

Above  thine  head. 

In  thy  grief  had  we  followed  thee,  in  thy  passion  loved, 

Loved  in  thy  loss; 
In  thy  shame  we  stood  fast  to  thee,  with  thy  pangs  were  moved, 

Clung  to  thy  cross. 

By  the  hillside  of  Calvary  we  beheld  thy  blood, 

Thy  bloodred  tears, 
As  a  mother's  in  bitterness,  an  unebbing  flood, 

Years  upon  years. 

And  the  north  was  Gethsemane,  without  leaf  or  bloom, 

A  garden  sealed; 
And  the  south  was  Aceldama,  for  a  sanguine  fume 

Hid  all  the  field. 

By  the  stone  of  the  sepulchre  we  returned  to  weep, 

From  far,  from  prison; 
And  the  guards  by  it  keeping  it  we  beheld  asleep, 

But  thou  wast  risen. 

And  an  angel's  similitude  by  the  unsealed  grave, 

And  by  the  stone: 
And  the  voice  was  angelical,  to  whose  words  God  gave 

Strength  like  his  own. 

"Lo,  the  graveclothes  of  Italy  that  are  folded  up 

In  the  grave's  gloom! 
And  the  guards  as  men  wrought  upon  with  a  charmed  cup, 

By  the  open  tomb. 


29 


"And  her  body  most  beautiful,  and  her  shining  head, 

These  are  not  here; 
For  jour  mother,  for  Italy,  is  not  surely  dead : 

Have  ye  no  fear. 

"As  of  old  time  she  spake  to  you,  and  you  hardly  heard, 

Hardly  took  heed, 
So  now  also  she  saith  to  you,  yet  another  word, 

Who  is  risen  indeed. 

"By  my  saying  she  saith  to  you,  in  your  ears  she  saith, 

Who  hear  these  things, 
Put  no  trust  in  men's  royalties,  nor  in  great  men's  breath, 

Nor  words  of  kings. 

"  For  the  life  of  them  vanishes  and  is  no  more  seen, 

Nor  no  more  known; 
Nor  shall  any  remember  him  if  a  crown  hath  been, 

Or  where  a  throne. 

"Unto  each  man  his  handiwork,  unto  each  his  crown, 

The  just  Fate  gives; 
Whoso  takes  the  world's  life  on  him  and  his  own  lays  down, 

He,  dying  so,  lives. 

"Whoso  bears  the  whole  heaviness  of  the  wronged  world's  weight 

And  puts  it  by, 
It  is  well  with  him  suffering,  though  he  face  man's  fate; 

How  should  he  die? 

"  Seeing  death  has  no  part  in  him  any  more,  no  power 

Upon  his  head; 
He  has  bought  his  eternity  with  a  little  hour, 

And  is  not  dead. 


"  For  an  hour,  if  ye  look  for  him,  he  is  no  more  found, 

For  one  hour's  space; 
Then  ye  lift  up  your  eyes  to  him  and  behold  him  crowned, 

A  deathless  face. 

"On  the  mountains  of  memory,  by  the  world's  well-springs, 

In  all  men's  eyes, 
Where  the  light  of  the  life  of  him  is  on  all  past  things, 

Death  only  dies. 

"Not  the  light  that  was  quenched  for  us,  nor  the  deeds  that  were, 

Nor  the  ancient  days, 
Nor  the  sorrows  not  sorrowful,  nor  the  face  most  fair 

Of  perfect  praise." 

So  the  angel  of  Italy's  resurrection  said, 

Soyethesaith; 
So  the  son  of  her  suffering,  that  from  breasts  nigh  dead 

Drew  life,  not  death. 

That  the  pavement  of  Golgotha  should  be  white  as  snow, 

Not  red,  but  white; 
That  the  waters  of  Babylon  should  no  longer  flow, 

And  men  see  light. 


THE  HALT  BEFORE  ROME 
September  1867 

IS  it  so,  that  the  sword  is  broken, 
Our  sword,  that  was  halfway  drawn? 
Is  it  so,  that  the  light  was  a  spark, 
That  the  bird  we  hailed  as  the  lark 
Sang  in  her  sleep  in  the  dark, 
And  the  song  we  took  for  a  token 
Bore  false  witness  of  dawn? 

Spread  in  the  sight  of  the  lion, 

Surely,  we  said,  is  the  net 
Spread  but  in  vain,  and  the  snare 
Vain;  for  the  light  is  aware, 
And  the  common,  the  chainless  air, 
Of  his  coming  whom  all  we  cry  on; 

Surely  in  vain  is  it  set. 

Surely  the  day  is  on  our  side, 

And  heaven,  and  the  sacred  sun; 
Surely  the  stars,  and  the  bright 
Immemorial  inscrutable  night: 
Yea,  the  darkness,  because  of  our  light, 
Is  no  darkness,  but  blooms  as  a  bower-side 
When  the  winter  is  over  and  done; 


32 


Blooms  underfoot  with  young  grasses 
Green,  and  with  leaves  overhead, 

Windflowers  white,  and  the  low 

New-dropped  blossoms  of  snow; 

And  or  ever  the  May  winds  blow, 

And  or  ever  the  March  wind  passes, 
Flames  with  anemones  red. 

We  are  here  in  the  world's  bower-garden, 
We  that  have  watched  out  the  snow. 

Surely  the  fruitfuller  showers, 

The  splendider  sunbeams  are  ours; 

Shall  winter  return  on  the  flowers, 

And  the  frost  after  April  harden, 
And  the  fountains  in  May  not  flow? 

We  have  in  our  hands  the  shining 
And  the  fire  in  our  hearts  of  a  star. 

Who  are  we  that  our  tongues  should  palter, 

Hearts  bow  down,  hands  falter, 

Who  are  clothed  as  with  flame  from  the  altar, 

That  the  kings  of  the  earth,  repining, 
Far  off,  watch  from  afar? 

Woe  is  ours  if  we  doubt  or  dissemble, 

Woe,  if  our  hearts  not  abide. 
Are  our  chiefs  not  among  us,  we  said, 
Great  chiefs,  living  and  dead, 
To  lead  us  glad  to  be  led? 
For  whose  sake,  if  a  man  of  us  tremble, 

He  shall  not  be  on  our  side. 


f  33 


What  matter  if  these  lands  tarry, 

That  tarried  -  we  said  -  not  of  old? 
France,  made  drunken  by  fate, 
England,  that  bore  up  the  weight 
Once  of  men's  freedom,  a  freight 
Holy,  but  heavy  to  carry 

For  hands  overflowing  with  gold. 

Though  this  be  lame,  and  the  other 

Fleet,  but  blind  from  the  sun, 
And  the  race  be  no  more  to  these, 
Alas!  nor  the  palm  to  seize, 
Who  are  weary  and  hungry  of  ease, 
Yet,  O  Freedom,  we  said,  O  our  mother, 
Is  there  not  left  to  thee  one? 

Is  there  not  left  of  thy  daughters, 
Is  there  not  one  to  thine  hand? 
Fairer  than  these,  and  of  fame 
Higher  from  of  old  by  her  name; 
Washed  in  her  tears,  and  in  flame 
Bathed  as  in  baptism  of  waters, 
Unto  all  men  a  chosen  land. 

Her  hope  in  her  heart  was  broken, 
Fire  was  upon  her,  and  clomb, 

Hiding  her,  high  as  her  head; 

And  the  world  went  past  her,  and  said 

-We  heard  it  say  -  she  was  dead; 

And  now,  behold,  she  hath  spoken, 
She  that  was  dead,  saying,  "Rome." 


O  mother  of  all  men's  nations, 

Thou  knowest  if  the  deaf  world  heard! 
Heard  not  now  to  her  lowest 
Depths,  where  the  strong  blood  slowest 
Beats  at  her  bosom,  thou  knowest, 
In  her  toils,  in  her  dim  tribulations, 

Rejoiced  not,  hearing  the  word. 

The  sorrowful,  bound  unto  sorrow, 

The  woe-worn  people,  and  all 
That  of  old  were  discomforted, 
And  men  that  famish  for  bread, 
And  men  that  mourn  for  their  dead, 
She  bade  them  be  glad  on  the  morrow, 
Who  endured  in  the  day  of  her  thrall. 

The  blind,  and  the  people  in  prison, 
Souls  without  hope,  without  home, 

How  glad  were  they  all  that  heard! 

When  the  winged  white  flame  of  the  word 

Passed  over  men's  dust,  and  stirred 

Death;  for  Italia  was  risen, 

And  risen  her  light  upon  Rome. 

The  light  of  her  sword  in  the  gateway- 
Shone,  an  unquenchable  flame, 

Bloodless,  a  sword  to  release, 

A  light  from  the  eyes  of  peace, 

To  bid  grief  utterly  cease, 

And  the  wrong  of  the  old  world  straightway 
Pass  from  the  face  of  her  fame: 


Hers,  whom  we  turn  to  and  cry  on, 

Italy,  mother  of  men: 
From  the  light  of  the  face  of  her  glory, 
At  the  sound  of  the  storm  of  her  story, 
That  the  sanguine  shadows  and  hoary 
Should  flee  from  the  foot  of  the  lion, 

Lion-like,  forth  of  his  den. 

As  the  answering  of  thunder  to  thunder 
Is  the  storm-beaten  sound  of  her  past; 
As  the  calling  of  sea  unto  sea 
Is  the  noise  of  her  years  yet  to  be; 
For  this  ye  knew  not  is  she, 
Whose  bonds  are  broken  in  sunder; 
This  is  she  at  the  last. 

So  spake  we  aloud,  high-minded, 

Full  of  our  will;  and  behold, 
The  speech  that  was  halfway  spoken 
Breaks,  as  a  pledge  that  is  broken, 
As  a  king's  pledge,  leaving  in  token 
Grief  only  for  high  hopes  blinded, 

New  grief  grafted  on  old. 

We  halt  by  the  walls  of  the  city, 

Within  sound  of  the  clash  of  her  chain. 

Hearing,  we  know  that  in  there 

The  lioness  chafes  in  her  lair, 

Shakes  the  storm  of  her  hair, 

Struggles  in  hands  without  pity, 
Roars  to  the  lion  in  vain. 


Whose  hand  is  stretched  forth  upon  her? 

Whose  curb  is  white  with  her  foam? 
Clothed  with  the  cloud  of  his  deeds, 
Swathed  in  the  shroud  of  his  creeds, 
Who  is  this  that  has  trapped  her  and  leads, 
Who  turns  to  despair  and  dishonour 

Her  name,  her  name  that  was  Rome? 

Over  fields  without  harvest  or  culture, 
Over  hordes  without  honour  or  love, 
Over  nations  that  groan  with  their  kings, 
As  an  imminent  pestilence  flings 
Swift  death  from  her  shadowing  wings, 
So  he,  who  hath  claws  as  a  vulture, 
Plumage  and  beak  as  a  dove. 

He  saith,  "I  am  pilot  and  haven, 

Light  and  redemption  I  am 
Unto  souls  overlaboured,"  he  saith; 
And  to  all  men  the  blast  of  his  breath 
Is  a  savour  of  death  unto  death; 
And  the  Dove  of  his  worship  a  raven, 

And  a  wolf-cub  the  life-giving  Lamb. 

He  calls  his  sheep  as  a  shepherd, 

Calls  from  the  wilderness  home, 
"Come  unto  me  and  be  fed," 
To  feed  them  with  ashes  for  bread 
And  grass  from  the  graves  of  the  dead, 
Leaps  on  the  fold  as  a  leopard, 
Slays,  and  says,  "I  am  Rome." 


37 


Rome,  having  rent  her  in  sunder, 

With  the  clasp  of  an  adder  he  clasps; 
Swift  to  shed  blood  are  his  feet, 
And  his  lips,  that  have  man  for  their  meat, 
Smoother  than  oil,  and  more  sweet 
Than  honey,  but  hidden  thereunder 
Festers  the  poison  of  asps. 

As  swords  are  his  tender  mercies, 

His  kisses  as  mortal  stings; 
Under  his  hallowing  hands 
Life  dies  down  in  all  lands; 
Kings  pray  to  him,  prone  where  he  stands, 
And  his  blessings,  as  other  men's  curses, 

Disanoint  where  they  consecrate  kings. 

« 

With  an  oil  of  unclean  consecration, 

With  effusion  of  blood  and  of  tears, 
With  uplifting  of  cross  and  of  keys, 
Priest,  though  thou  hallow  us  these, 
Yet  even  as  they  cling  to  thy  knees 
Nation  awakens  by  nation, 
King  by  king  disappears. 

How  shall  the  spirit  be  loyal 

To  the  shell  of  a  spiritless  thing? 

Erred  once,  in  only  a  word, 

The  sweet  great  song  that  we  heard 

Poured  upon  Tuscany,  erred, 

Calling  a  crowned  man  royal 
That  was  no  more  than  a  king. 


Sea-eagle  of  English  feather, 

A  song-bird  beautiful -souled, 
She  knew  not  them  that  she  sang; 
The  golden  trumpet  that  rang 
From  Florence,  in  vain  for  them,  sprang 
As  a  note  in  the  nightingales'  weather 

Far  over  Fiesole  rolled. 

She  saw  not -happy,  not  seeing - 

Saw  not  as  we  with  her  eyes 
Aspromonte;  she  felt 
Never  the  heart  in  her  melt 
As  in  us  when  the  news  was  dealt 
Melted  all  hope  out  of  being, 

Dropped  all  dawn  from  the  skies. 

In  that  weary  funereal  season, 

In  that  heart-stricken  grief-ridden  time, 
The  weight  of  a  king  and  the  worth, 
With  anger  and  sorrowful  mirth, 
We  weighed  in  the  balance  of  earth, 
And  light  was  his  word  as  a  treason, 

And  heavy  his  crown  as  a  crime. 

Banners  of  kings  shall  ye  follow 

None,  and  have  thrones  on  your  side 

None;  ye  shall  gather  and  grow 

Silently,  row  upon  row, 

Chosen  of  Freedom  to  go 

Gladly  where  darkness  may  swallow, 
Gladly  where  death  may  divide. 


Have  we  not  men  with  us  royal, 

Men  the  masters  of  things? 
In  the  days  when  our  life  is  made  new, 
All  souls  perfect  and  true 
Shall  adore  whom  their  forefathers  slew; 
And  these  indeed  shall  be  loyal, 

And  those  indeed  shall  be  kings. 

Yet  for  a  space  they  abide  with  us, 

Yet  for  a  little  they  stand, 
Bearing  the  heat  of  the  day. 
When  their  presence  is  taken  away, 
We  shall  wonder  and  worship,  and  say, 
"Was  not  a  star  on  our  side  with  us? 

Was  not  a  God  at  our  hand?" 

These,  O  men,  shall  ye  honour, 

Liberty  only,  and  these. 
For  thy  sake  and  for  all  men's  and  mine, 
Brother,  the  crowns  of  them  shine 
Lighting  the  way  to  her  shrine, 
That  our  eyes  may  be  fastened  upon  her, 

That  our  hands  may  encompass  her  knees. 

In  this  day  is  the  sign  of  her  shown  to  you; 

Choose  ye,  to  live  or  to  die. 
Now  is  her  harvest  in  hand; 
Now  is  her  light  in  the  land; 
Choose  ye,  to  sink  or  to  stand, 
For  the  might  of  her  strength  is  made  known  to  you 

Now,  and  her  arm  is  on  high. 


Serve  not  for  any  man's  wages, 
Pleasure  nor  glory  nor  gold; 

Not  by  her  side  are  they  won 

Who  saith  unto  each  of  you,  "Son, 

Silver  and  gold  have  I  none; 

I  give  but  the  love  of  all  ages, 

And  the  life  of  my  people  of  old." 

Fear  not  for  any  man's  terrors; 

Wait  not  for  any  man's  word; 
Patiently,  each  in  his  place, 
Gird  up  your  loins  to  the  race; 
Following  the  print  of  her  pace, 
Purged  of  desires  and  of  errors, 

March  to  the  tune  ye  have  heard. 

March  to  the  tune  of  the  voice  of  her, 
Breathing  the  balm  of  her  breath, 

Loving  the  light  of  her  skies. 

Blessed  is  he  on  whose  eyes 

Dawns  but  her  light  as  he  dies; 

Blessed  are  ye  that  make  choice  of  her, 
Equal  to  life  and  to  death. 

Ye  that  when  faith  is  nigh  frozen, 

Ye  that  when  hope  is  nigh  gone, 
Still,  over  wastes,  over  waves, 
Still,  among  wrecks,  among  graves, 
Follow  the  splendour  that  saves, 
Happy,  her  children,  her  chosen, 
Loyally  led  of  her  on. 


g 


The  sheep  of  the  priests,  and  the  cattle 

That  feed  in  the  penfolds  of  kings, 
Sleek  is  their  flock  and  well-fed; 
Hardly  she  giveth  you  bread, 
Hardly  a  rest  for  the  head, 
Till  the  day  of  the  blast  of  the  battle 

And  the  storm  of  the  wind  of  her  wings. 

Ye  that  have  joy  in  your  living, 

Ye  that  are  careful  to  live, 
You  her  thunders  go  by: 
Live,  let  men  be,  let  them  lie, 
Serve  your  season,  and  die; 
Gifts  have  your  masters  for  giving, 

Gifts  hath  not  Freedom  to  give; 

She,  without  shelter  or  station, 

She,  beyond  limit  or  bar, 
Urges  to  slumberless  speed 
Armies  that  famish,  that  bleed, 
Sowing  their  lives  for  her  seed, 
That  their  dust  may  rebuild  her  a  nation, 

That  their  souls  may  relight  her  a  star. 

Happy  are  all  they  that  follow  her: 

Them  shall  no  trouble  cast  down; 
Though  she  slay  them,  yet  shall  they  trust  in  her, 
For  unsure  there  is  nought  nor  unjust  in  her, 
Blemish  is  none,  neither  rust  in  her; 
Though  it  threaten,  the  night  shall  not  swallow  her, 

Tempest  and  storm  shall  not  drown. 


42 


Hither,  O  strangers,  that  cry  for  her, 
Holding  your  lives  in  your  hands, 

Hither,  for  here  is  your  light, 

Where  Italy  is,  and  her  might; 

Strength  shall  be  given  you  to  fight, 

Grace  shall  be  given  you  to  die  for  her, 
For  the  flower,  for  the  lady  of  lands; 

Turn  ye,  whose  anguish  oppressing  you 

Crushes,  asleep  and  awake, 
For  the  wrong  which  is  wrought  as  of  yore; 
That  Italia  may  give  of  her  store, 
Having  these  things  to  give  and  no  more; 
Only  her  hands  on  you,  blessing  you; 

Only  a  pang  for  her  sake; 

Only  her  bosom  to  die  on; 

Only  her  heart  for  a  home, 
And  a  name  with  her  children  to  be 
From  Calabrian  to  Adrian  sea 
Famous  in  cities  made  free 
That  ring  to  the  roar  of  the  lion 

Proclaiming  republican  Rome. 


MENTANA:  FIRST  ANNIVERSARY 


T  the  time  when  the  stars  are  grey, 
And  the  gold  of  the  molten  moon 
Fades,  and  the  twilight  is  thinned, 
And  the  sun  leaps  up,  and  the  wind, 
A  light  rose,  not  of  the  day, 
A  stronger  light  than  of  noon. 

As  the  light  of  a  face  much  loved 
Was  the  face  of  the  light  that  clomb; 

As  a  mother's  whitened  with  woes 

Her  adorable  head  that  arose; 

As  the  sound  of  a  God  that  is  moved, 
Her  voice  went  forth  upon  Rome. 

At  her  lips  it  fluttered  and  failed 

Twice,  and  sobbed  into  song, 
And  sank  as  a  flame  sinks  under; 
Then  spake,  and  the  speech  was  thunder, 
And  the  cheek  as  he  heard  it  paled 

Of  the  wrongdoer  grown  grey  with  the  wrong. 

"Is  it  time,  is  it  time  appointed, 

Angel  of  time,  is  it  near? 
For  the  spent  night  aches  into  day 
When  the  kings  shall  slay  not  or  pray, 
And  the  high-priest,  accursed  and  anointed, 

Sickens  to  deathward  with  fear. 


44 


"  For  the  bones  of  my  slain  are  stirred, 
And  the  seed  of  my  earth  in  her  womb 

Moves  as  the  heart  of  a  bud 

Beating  with  odorous  blood 

To  the  tune  of  the  loud  first  bird 
Burns  and  yearns  into  bloom. 

"  I  lay  my  hand  on  her  bosom, 

My  hand  on  the  heart  of  my  earth, 
And  I  feel  as  with  shiver  and  sob 
The  triumphant  heart  in  her  throb, 
The  dead  petals  dilate  into  blossom, 
The  divine  blood  beat  into  birth. 

"O  my  earth,  are  the  springs  in  thee  dry? 

O  sweet,  is  thy  body  a  tomb? 
Nay,  springs  out  of  springs  derive, 
And  summers  from  summers  alive, 
And  the  living  from  them  that  die ; 

No  tomb  is  here,  but  a  womb. 

"O  manifold  womb  and  divine, 

Give  me  fruit  of  my  children,  give! 

I  have  given  thee  my  dew  for  thy  root, 

Give  thou  me  for  my  mouth  of  thy  fruit; 

Thine  are  the  dead  that  are  mine, 
And  mine  are  thy  sons  that  live. 

"O  goodly  children,  O  strong 

Italian  spirits,  that  wear 
My  glories  as  garments  about  you, 
Could  time  or  the  world  misdoubt  you, 
Behold,  in  disproof  of  the  wrong, 

The  field  of  the  grave-pits  there. 


45 


"And  ye  that  fell  upon  sleep, 

We  have  you  too  with  us  yet. 
Fairer  than  life  or  than  youth 
Is  this,  to  die  for  the  truth: 
No  death  can  sink  you  so  deep 

As  their  graves  whom  their  brethren  forget. 

"Were  not  your  pains  as  my  pains? 

As  my  name  are  your  names  not  divine? 
Was  not  the  light  in  your  eyes 
Mine,  the  light  of  my  skies, 
And  the  sweet  shed  blood  of  your  veins, 

O  my  beautiful  martyrs,  mine? 

"Of  mine  earth  were  your  dear  limbs  made, 
Of  mine  air  was  your  sweet  life's  breath; 
At  the  breasts  of  my  love  ye  were  fed, 
O  my  children,  my  chosen,  my  dead, 
At  my  breasts  where  again  ye  are  laid, 
At  the  old  mother's  bosom,  in  death. 

"But  ye  that  live,  O  their  brothers, 

Be  ye  to  me  as  they  were; 
Give  me,  my  children  that  live, 
What  these  dead  grudged  not  to  give, 
Who  alive  were  sons  of  your  mother's, 

Whose  lips  drew  breath  of  your  air. 

'Till  darkness  by  dawn  be  cloven, 

Let  youth's  self  mourn  and  abstain ; 
And  love's  self  find  not  an  hour, 
And  spring's  self  wear  not  a  flower, 
And  Lycoris,  with  hair  unenwoven, 
Hail  back  to  the  banquet  in  vain. 


So  sooner  and  surer  the  glory- 
That  is  not  with  us  shall  be, 
And  stronger  the  hands  that  smite 
The  heads  of  the  sons  of  night, 
And  the  sound  throughout  earth  of  our  story 
Give  all  men  heart  to  be  free." 


47 


BLESSED  AMONG  WOMEN 
To  the  Signora  Cairoli 


iLESSED  was  she  that  bare, 
Hidden  in  flesh  most  fair, 
(For  all  men's  sake  the  likeness  of  all  love; 
Holy  that  virgin's  womb, 

The  old  record  saith,  on  whom 
The  glory  of  God  alighted  as  a  dove; 

Blessed,  who  brought  to  gracious  birth 
The  sweet-souled  Saviour  of  a  man-tormented  earth. 

ii 

But  four  times  art  thou  blest, 

At  whose  most  holy  breast 
Four  times  a  godlike  soldier-saviour  hung; 

And  thence  a  fourfold  Christ 

Given  to  be  sacrificed 
To  the  same  cross  as  the  same  bosom  clung; 

Poured  the  same  blood,  to  leave  the  same 
Light  on  the  many-folded  mountain-skirts  of  fame. 

iii 

Shall  they  and  thou  not  live, 

The  children  thou  didst  give 
Forth  of  thine  hands,  a  godlike  gift,  to  death, 

Through  fire  of  death  to  pass 

For  her  high  sake  that  was 
Thine  and  their  mother,  that  gave  all  you  breath? 

Shall  ye  not  live  till  time  drop  dead, 
O  mother,  and  each  her  children's  consecrated  head? 


IV 

Many  brought  gifts  to  take 

For  her  love's  supreme  sake, 
Life  and  life's  love,  pleasure  and  praise  and  rest, 

And  went  forth  bare;  but  thou, 

So  much  once  richer,  and  now 
Poorer  than  all  these,  more  than  these  be  blest; 

Poorer  so  much,  by  so  much  given, 

Than  who  gives  earth  for  heaven's  sake,  not  for  earth's  sake  heaven. 

v 

Somewhat  could  each  soul  save, 

What  thing  soever  it  gave, 
But  thine,  mother,  what  has  thy  soul  kept  back? 

None  of  thine  all,  not  one, 

To  serve  thee  and  be  thy  son, 
Feed  with  love  all  thy  days,  lest  one  day  lack; 

All  thy  whole  life's  love,  thine  heart's  whole, 
Thou  hast  given  as  who  gives  gladly,  O  thou  the  supreme  soul. 

vi 

The  heart's  pure  flesh  and  blood, 

The  heaven  thy  motherhood, 
The  live  lips,  the  live  eyes,  that  lived  on  thee; 

The  hands  that  clove  with  sweet 

Blind  clutch  to  thine,  the  feet 
That  felt  on  earth  their  first  way  to  thy  knee; 

The  little  laughter  of  mouths  milk-fed, 
Now  open  again  to  feed  on  dust  among  the  dead; 

« • 

VII 

The  fair,  strong,  young  men's  strength, 

Light  of  life-days  and  length, 
And  glory  of  earth  seen  under  and  stars  above, 

And  years  that  bring  to  tame 

Now  the  wild  falcon  fame, 
Now,  to  stroke  smooth,  the  dove-white  breast  of  love; 

The  life  unlived,  the  unsown  seeds, 
Suns  unbeholden,  songs  unsung,  and  undone  deeds. 

49 


•  *  • 

Vlll 

Therefore  shall  man's  love  be 

As  an  own  son  to  thee, 
And  the  world's  worship  of  thee  for  a  child; 

All  thine  own  land  as  one 

New-born,  a  nursing  son, 
All  thine  own  people  a  new  birth  imdefiled; 

And  all  the  unborn  Italian  time, 
And  all  its  glory,  6  all  its  works,  thy  seed  sublime. 

ix 

That  henceforth  no  man's  breath, 

Saying  "Italy,"  but  saith 
In  that  most  sovereign  word  thine  equal  name; 

Nor  can  one  speak  of  thee 

But  he  saith  "Italy," 
Seeing  in  two  suns  one  co-eternal  flame; 

One  heat,  one  heaven,  one  heart,  one  fire, 
One  light,  one  love,  one  benediction,  one  desire. 

x 

Blest  above  praise  &  prayer 

And  incense  of  men's  air, 
Thy  place  is  higher  than  where  such  voices  rise 

As  in  men's  temples  make 

Music  for  some  vain  sake, 
This  God's  or  that  God's,  in  one  weary  wise; 

Thee  the  soul  silent,  the  shut  heart, 
The  locked  lips  of  the  spirit  praise  thee  that  thou  art. 

xi 

Yea,  for  man's  whole  life's  length. 

And  with  man's  whole  soul's  strength, 
We  praise  thee,  O  holy,  &  bless  thee,  O  mother  of  lights; 

And  send  forth  as  on  wings 

The  world's  heart's  thanksgivings, 
Song-birds  to  sing  thy  days  through  &  thy  nights; 

And  wrap  thee  around  &  arch  thee  above 
With  the  air  of  benediction  &  the  heaven  of  love. 


xii 

And  toward  thee  our  unbreathed  words 

Fly  speechless,  winged  as  birds, 
As  the  Indian  flock,  children  of  Paradise, 

The  winged  things  without  feet, 

Fed  with  God's  dew  for  meat, 
That  live  in  the  air  &  light  of  the  utter  skies; 

So  fleet,  so  flying  a  footless  flight, 

With  wings  for  feet  love  seeks  thee,  to  partake  thy  sight. 

xiii 

Love  like  a  clear  sky  spread 

Bends  over  thy  loved  head, 
As  a  new  heaven  bends  over  a  new-born  earth, 

When  the  old  night's  womb  is  great 

With  young  stars  passionate 
And  fair  new  planets  fiery-fresh  from  birth; 

And  moon-white  here,  there  hot  like  Mars, 
Souls  that  are  worlds  shine  on  thee,  spirits  that  are  stars. 

xiv 

Till  the  whole  sky  burns  through 

With  heaven's  own  heart-deep  hue, 
With  passion-coloured  glories  of  lit  souls; 

And  thine  above  all  names 

Writ  highest  with  lettering  flames 
Lightens,  and  all  the  old  starriest  aureoles 

And  all  the  old  holiest  memories  wane, 
And  the  old  names  of  love's  chosen,  found  in  thy  sight  vain. 

xv 

And  crowned  heads  are  discrowned, 

And  stars  sink  without  sound, 
And  love's  self  for  thy  love's  sake  waxes  pale; 

Seeing  from  his  storied  skies 

In  what  new  reverent  wise 
Thee  Rome's  most  highest,  her  sovereign  daughters,  hail; 

Thee  Portia,  thee  Veturia  grey, 
Thee  Arria,  thee  Cornelia,  Roman  more  than  they. 

51 


XVI 

Even  all  these  as  all  we 

Subdue  themselves  to  thee, 
Bow  their  heads  haloed,  quench  their  fiery  fame; 

Seen  through  dim  years  divine, 

Their  faint  lights  feminine 
Sink,  then  spring  up  rekindled  from  thy  flame; 

Fade,  then  reflower  and  reillume 

From  thy  fresh  spring  their  wintering  age  with  new-blown  bloom. 

xvii 

To  thy  much  holier  head 

Even  theirs,  the  holy  and  dead, 
Bow  themselves  each  one  from  her  heavenward  height; 

Each  in  her  shining  turn, 

All  tremble  toward  thee  and  yearn 
To  melt  in  thine  their  consummated  light; 

Till  from  day's  Capitolian  dome 
One  glory  of  many  glories  lighten  upon  Rome. 

xviii 

Hush  thyself,  song,  and  cease, 

Close,  lips,  and  hold  your  peace; 
What  help  hast  thou,  what  part  have  ye  herein? 

But  you,  with  sweet  shut  eyes, 

Heart-hidden  memories, 
Dreams  &  dumb  thoughts  that  keep  what  things  have  been 

Silent,  and  pure  of  all  words  said, 
Praise  without  song  the  living,  without  dirge  the  dead. 

xix 

Thou,  strengthless  in  these  things, 

Song,  fold  thy  feebler  wings, 
And  as  a  pilgrim  go  forth  girt  and  shod, 

And  where  the  new  graves  are, 

And  where  the  sunset  star, 
To  the  pure  spirit  of  man  that  men  call  God, 

To  the  high  soul  of  things,  that  is 
Made  of  men's  heavenlier  hopes  and  mightier  memories; 


XX 

To  the  elements  that  make 

For  the  soul's  living  sake 
This  raiment  of  dead  things,  of  shadow  and  trance, 

That  give  us  chance  and  time 

Wherein  to  aspire  and  climb 
And  set  our  life's  work  higher  than  time  or  chance ; 

The  old  sacred  elements,  that  give 
The  breath  of  life  to  days  that  die,  to  deeds  that  live; 

xxi 

To  them,  veiled  gods  and  great, 

There  bow  thee  and  dedicate 
The  speechless  spirit  in  these  thy  weak  words  hidden; 

And  mix  thy  reverent  breath 

With  holier  air  of  death, 
At  the  high  feast  of  sorrow  a  guest  unbidden, 

Till  with  divine  triumphal  tears 
Thou  fill  men's  eyes  who  listen  with  a  heart  that  hears. 


THE  LITANY  OF  NATIONS 

MA  FA,  MA  TA.  BOA N 
<J>OBEPON  ATTOTPETTE. 

Aesch.  Supp.  890 

Chorus: 

IF  with  voice  of  words  or  prayers  thy  sons  may  reach  thee, 
We  thy  latter  sons,  the  men  thine  after-birth, 
We  the  children  of  thy  grey-grown  age,  O  Earth, 
O  our  mother  everlasting,  we  beseech  thee, 
By  the  sealed  and  secret  ages  of  thy  life; 

By  the  darkness  wherein  grew  thy  sacred  forces; 

By  the  songs  of  stars  thy  sisters  in  their  courses; 
By  thine  own  song  hoarse  and  hollow  and  shrill  with  strife; 
By  thy  voice  distuned  and  marred  of  modulation; 

By  the  discord  of  thy  measure's  march  with  theirs; 

By  the  beauties  of  thy  bosom,  and  the  cares; 
By  thy  glory  of  growth,  and  splendour  of  thy  station; 
By  the  shame  of  men  thy  children,  and  the  pride; 

By  the  pale-cheeked  hope  that  sleeps  and  weeps  and  passes, 

As  the  grey  dew  from  the  morning  mountain -grasses ; 
By  the  white-lipped  sightless  memories  that  abide; 
By  the  silence  and  the  sound  of  many  sorrows; 

By  the  joys  that  leapt  up  living  and  fell  dead; 

By  the  veil  that  hides  thy  hands  and  breasts  and  head, 
Wrought  of  divers-coloured  days  and  nights  and  morrows; 
Isis,  thou  that  knowest  of  God  what  worlds  are  worth, 

Thou  the  ghost  of  God,  the  mother  uncreated, 

Soul  for  whom  the  floating  forceless  ages  waited 


As  our  forceless  fancies  wait  on  thee,  O  Earth; 
Thou  the  body  and  soul,  the  father-God  and  mother, 

If  at  all  it  move  thee,  knowing  of  all  things  done 

Here  where  evil  things  and  good  things  are  not  one, 
But  their  faces  are  as  fire  against  each  other; 
By  thy  morning  and  thine  evening,  night  and  day; 

By  the  first  white  light  that  stirs  and  strives  and  hovers 

As  a  bird  above  the  brood  her  bosom  covers, 
By  the  sweet  last  star  that  takes  the  westward  way; 
By  the  night  whose  feet  are  shod  with  snow  or  thunder, 

Fledged  with  plumes  of  storm,  or  soundless  as  the  dew; 

By  the  vesture  bound  of  many-folded  blue 
Round  her  breathless  breasts,  and  all  the  woven  wonder; 
By  the  golden-growing  eastern  stream  of  sea; 

By  the  sounds  of  sunrise  moving  in  the  mountains; 

By  the  forces  of  the  floods  and  unsealed  fountains; 
Thou  that  badest  man  be  born,  bid  man  be  free. 


Greece: 

I  am  she  that  made  thee  lovely  with  my  beauty 

From  north  to  south : 
Mine,  the  fairest  lips,  took  first  the  fire  of  duty 

From  thine  own  mouth. 
Mine,  the  fairest  eyes,  sought  first  thy  laws  and  knew  them 

Truths  undenled; 
Mine,  the  fairest  hands,  took  freedom  first  into  them, 

A  weanling  child. 
By  my  light,  now  he  lies  sleeping,  seen  above  him 

Where  none  sees  other; 
By  my  dead  that  loved  and  living  men  that  love  him; 

Chorus: 

Hear  us,  O  mother. 


Italy: 

I  am  she  that  was  the  light  of  thee  enkindled 

When  Greece  grew  dim; 
She  whose  life  grew  up  with  man's  free  life,  and  dwindled 

With  wane  of  him. 
She  that  once  by  sword  and  once  by  word  imperial 

Struck  bright  thy  gloom; 
And  a  third  time,  casting  off  these  years  funereal, 

Shall  burst  thy  tomb. 
By  that  bond  'twixt  thee  and  me  whereat  affrighted 

Thy  tyrants  fear  us; 
By  that  hope  and  this  remembrance  reunited; 

Chorus: 

O  mother,  hear  us. 

Spain: 

I  am  she  that  set  my  seal  upon  the  nameless 

West  worlds  of  seas; 
And  my  sons  as  brides  took  unto  them  the  tameless 

Hesperides. 
Till  my  sins  and  sons  through  sinless  lands  dispersed, 

With  red  flame  shod, 
Made  accurst  the  name  of  man,  and  thrice  accursed 

The  name  of  God. 
Lest  for  those  past  fires  the  fires  of  my  repentance 

Hell's  fume  yet  smother, 
Now  my  blood  would  buy  remission  of  my  sentence; 

Chorus: 

Hear  us,  O  mother. 


France: 

I  am  she  that  was  thy  sign  and  standard-bearer, 

Thy  voice  and  cry; 
She  that  washed  thee  with  her  blood  and  left  thee  fairer, 

The  same  was  I. 
Were  not  these  the  hands  that  raised  thee  fallen  and  fed  thee, 

These  hands  defiled? 
Was  not  I  thy  tongue  that  spake,  thine  eye  that  led  thee, 

Not  I  thy  child? 
By  the  darkness  on  our  dreams,  and  the  dead  errors 

Of  dead  times  near  us; 
By  the  hopes  that  hang  around  thee,  and  the  terrors; 

Chorus: 

O  mother,  hear  us. 
« 

Russia: 

I  am  she  whose  hands  are  strong  and  her  eyes  blinded 

And  lips  athirst 
Till  upon  the  night  of  nations  many-minded 

One  bright  day  burst: 
Till  the  myriad  stars  be  molten  into  one  light, 

And  that  light  thine ; 
Till  the  soul  of  man  be  parcel  of  the  sunlight, 

And  thine  of  mine. 
By  the  snows  that  blanch  not  him  nor  cleanse  from  slaughter 

Who  slays  his  brother; 
By  the  stains  and  by  the  chains  on  me  thy  daughter; 

Chorus: 

Hear  us,  O  mother. 


Switzerland: 

I  am  she  that  shews  on  mighty  limbs  and  maiden 

Nor  chain  nor  stain; 
For  what  blood  can  touch  these  hands  with  gold  unladen, 

These  feet  what  chain? 
By  the  surf  of  spears  one  shieldless  bosom  breasted 

And  was  my  shield, 
Till  the  plume-plucked  Austrian  vulture-heads  twin-crested 

Twice  drenched  the  field; 
By  the  snows  and  souls  untrampled  and  untroubled 

That  shine  to  cheer  us, 
Light  of  those  to  these  responsive  and  redoubled; 

Chorus: 

O  mother,  hear  us. 

i 

Germany: 

I  am  she  beside  whose  forest-hidden  fountains 

Slept  freedom  armed, 
By  the  magic  born  to  music  in  my  mountains 

Heart-chained  and  charmed. 
By  those  days  the  very  dream  whereof  delivers 

My  soul  from  wrong; 
By  the  sounds  that  make  of  all  my  ringing  rivers 

None  knows  what  song; 
By  the  many  tribes  and  names  of  my  division 

One  from  another; 
By  the  single  eye  of  sun-compelling  vision; 

Chorus: 

Hear  us,  O  mother. 


England: 

I  am  she  that  was  and  was  not  of  thy  chosen, 

Free,  and  not  free; 
She  that  fed  thy  springs,  till  now  her  springs  are  frozen; 

Yet  I  am  she. 
By  the  sea  that  clothed  and  sun  that  saw  me  splendid 

And  fame  that  crowned, 
By  the  song-fires  and  the  sword-fires  mixed  and  blended 

That  robed  me  round ; 
By  the  star  that  Milton's  soul  for  Shelley's  lighted, 

Whose  rays  insphere  us; 
By  the  beacon-bright  Republic  far-off  sighted; 

Chorus: 

O  mother,  hear  us. 

Chorus: 

Turn  away  from  us  the  cross-blown  blasts  of  error, 

That  drown  each  other; 
Turn  away  the  fearful  cry,  the  loud-tongued  terror, 

O  Earth,  O  mother. 
Turn  away  their  eyes  who  track,  their  hearts  who  follow, 

The  pathless  past; 
Shew  the  soul  of  man,  as  summer  shews  the  swallow, 

The  way  at  last. 
By  the  sloth  of  men  that  all  too  long  endure  men 

On  man  to  tread ; 
By  the  cry  of  men,  the  bitter  cry  of  poor  men 

That  faint  for  bread; 
By  the  blood-sweat  of  the  people  in  the  garden 

Inwalled  of  kings; 


By  his  passion  interceding  for  their  pardon 

Who  do  these  things; 
By  the  sightless  souls  and  fleshless  limbs  that  labour 

For  not  their  fruit; 
By  the  foodless  mouth  with  foodless  heart  for  neighbour, 

That,  mad,  is  mute; 
By  the  child  that  famine  eats  as  worms  the  blossom 

-Ah  God,  the  child! 
By  the  milkless  lips  that  strain  the  bloodless  bosom 

Till  woe  runs  wild; 
By  the  pastures  that  give  grass  to  feed  the  lamb  in, 

Where  men  lack  meat; 
By  the  cities  clad  with  gold  and  shame  and  famine; 

By  field  and  street; 
By  the  people,  by  the  poor  man,  by  the  master 

That  men  call  slave; 
By  the  cross-winds  of  defeat  and  of  disaster, 

By  wreck,  by  wave; 
By  the  helm  that  keeps  us  still  to  sunwards  driving, 

Still  eastward  bound, 
Till,  as  night-watch  ends,  day  burn  on  eyes  reviving, 

And  land  be  found : 
We  thy  children,  that  arraign  not  nor  impeach  thee 

Though  no  star  steer  us, 
By  the  waves  that  wash  the  morning  we  beseech  thee, 

O  mother,  hear  us. 


60 


HERTHA 


AM  that  which  began; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man; 

I  am  equal  and  whole; 
God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of  them  bodily;  I  am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 

Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 
Or  the  flesh-coloured  fruit  of  my  branches,  I  was,  and  thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn; 
Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  6V  wild-beast  and  bird;  before  God  was,  I  am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Nought  is  there  to  go; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 
I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves;  I  am  stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kissed 

And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 
The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the  soul  and  the  body  that  is. 


61 


I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate; 
That  which  caresses 

With  hands  uncreate 
My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length  of  the  measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
"I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high"? 
I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him;  find  thou  but  thyself,  thou  art  I. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 
The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower,  the  dust  which  is  God. 

Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashioned  thee, 

Child,  underground  ? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 
...  Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all  these  hast  thou  known  of  or  found? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 
By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen,  &  shown  on  my  breast  to  the  skies? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee, 

Knowledge  of  me? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 
Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night?  have  the  winds  taken  counsel  with  thee? 


62 


Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 

What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 
Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the  sun  and  the  mountains  and  thou? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 
Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but  only  thy  mother  alone. 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 

Allured  or  afraid, 
Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she  stirs  not  for  all  that  have  prayed. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and  live  out  thy  life  as  the  light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith; 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 
Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy  thought,6-  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 
As  mine  were  to  thee; 
The  free  life  of  thy  living, 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free; 
Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to  slave,  shalt  thou  give  thee  to  me. 


0  children  of  banishment, 
Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 

Alway  to  last, 
Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the  shadows  and  stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 

The  dim  paths  of  the  night 
Set  the  shadow  called  God 

In  your  skies  to  give  light; 
But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the  shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 

The  life-tree  am  I; 
In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves:  ye  shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 

That  scourge  and  forgive, 
They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that  falls  off;  they  shall  die  &  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 

Make  day  of  the  dark, 
And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall  tread  out  their  fires  as  a  spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 

The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 
In  mt  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me; 
In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye  hear  the  waves  sound  of  the  sea. 


64 


That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  &  rustles,  6  branches  are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm- winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The  spring-wind  of  peace, 
Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere  one  of  my  blossoms  increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 

All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 

And  stream-riven  heights, 
Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  &  language  of  storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking  nights ; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 

Of  time-stricken  lands, 
All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins,  drop  through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 

And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But  only  to  grow, 
Yet  I  fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings  above  me  or  deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 
Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  infinite  lands  and  of  seas. 


In  the  spring-coloured  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 

By  centuries  of  days, 
Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot  out  from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  &  sweet  singing 

And  strength  to  my  roots; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with  freedom  of  soul  were  my  fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air; 
That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me,  beholding  the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse ; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs; 
Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed  him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  6-  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 

For  lamp  and  for  sword, 
God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red  with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful  ? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free  ? 
For  behold,  I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of  you;  look  forth  now  and  see. 


66 


Lo,  winged  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 

For  raiment  and  rod, 
God  trembles  in  heaven,  &  his  angels  are  white  with  the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  grey  from  his  fear; 
And  his  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken,  the  last  of  his  infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  &  breaks  him, 

Truth  slays  and  forgives; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives, 
Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon  freedom  and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 

Man's  polestar  and  pole; 
Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body,  and  seed  of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye; 
One  topmost  blossom 

That  scales  the  sky; 
Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made  of  me,  man  that  is  I. 


67 


BEFORE  A  CRUCIFIX 


HERE,  down  between  the  dusty  trees, 
At  this  lank  edge  of  haggard  wood, 
Women  with  labour-loosened  knees, 
With  gaunt  backs  bowed  by  servitude, 
Stop,  shift  their  loads,  and  pray,  and  fare 
Forth  with  souls  easier  for  the  prayer. 

The  suns  have  branded  black,  the  rains 
Striped  grey  this  piteous  God  of  theirs; 

The  face  is  full  of  prayers  and  pains, 

To  which  they  bring  their  pains  &  prayers; 

Lean  limbs  that  shew  the  labouring  bones, 

And  ghastly  mouth  that  gapes  and  groans. 

God  of  this  grievous  people,  wrought 

After  the  likeness  of  their  race, 
By  faces  like  thine  own  besought, 

Thine  own  blind  helpless  eyeless  face, 
I  too,  that  have  nor  tongue  nor  knee 
For  prayer,  I  have  a  word  to  thee. 

It  was  for  this  then,  that  thy  speech 
Was  blown  about  the  world  in  flame 

And  men's  souls  shot  up  out  of  reach 
Of  fear  or  lust  or  thwarting  shame - 

That  thy  faith  over  souls  should  pass 

As  sea-winds  burning  the  grey  grass? 


68 


It  was  for  this,  that  prayers  like  these 
Should  spend  themselves  about  thy  feet, 

And  with  hard  overlaboured  knees 

Kneeling,  these  slaves  of  men  should  beat 

Bosoms  too  lean  to  suckle  sons 

And  fruitless  as  their  orisons? 

It  was  for  this,  that  men  should  make 
Thy  name  a  fetter  on  men's  necks, 

Poor  men's  made  poorer  for  thy  sake, 
And  women's  withered  out  of  sex? 

It  was  for  this,  that  slaves  should  be, 

Thy  word  was  passed  to  set  men  free? 

The  nineteenth  wave  of  the  ages  rolls 

Now  deathward  since  thy  death  and  birth. 

Hast  thou  fed  full  men's  starved-out  souls? 
Hast  thou  brought  freedom  upon  earth? 

Or  are  there  less  oppressions  done 

In  this  wild  world  under  the  sun? 

Nay,  if  indeed  thou  be  not  dead, 

Before  thy  terrene  shrine  be  shaken, 

Look  down,  turn  usward,  bow  thine  head; 
O  thou  that  wast  of  God  forsaken, 

Look  on  thine  household  here,  and  see 

These  that  have  not  forsaken  thee. 

Thy  faith  is  fire  upon  their  lips, 

Thy  kingdom  golden  in  their  hands; 

They  scourge  us  with  thy  words  for  whips, 
They  brand  us  with  thy  words  for  brands; 

The  thirst  that  made  thy  dry  throat  shrink 

To  their  moist  mouths  commends  the  drink. 


The  toothed  thorns  that  bit  thy  brows 
Lighten  the  weight  of  gold  on  theirs; 

Thy  nakedness  enrobes  thy  spouse 
With  the  soft  sanguine  stuff  she  wears 

Whose  old  limbs  use  for  ointment  yet 

Thine  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

The  blinding  buffets  on  thine  head 

On  their  crowned  heads  confirm  the  crown ; 

Thy  scourging  dyes  their  raiment  red, 
And  with  thy  bands  they  fasten  down 

For  burial  in  the  blood-bought  field 

The  nations  by  thy  stripes  unhealed. 

With  iron  for  thy  linen  bands 

And  unclean  cloths  for  winding-sheet 

They  bind  the  people's  nail-pierced  hands, 
They  hide  the  people's  nail-pierced  feet; 

And  what  man  or  what  angel  known 

Shall  roll  back  the  sepulchral  stone? 

But  these  have  not  the  rich  man's  grave 
To  sleep  in  when  their  pain  is  done. 

These  were  not  fit  for  God  to  save. 
As  naked  hell-fire  is  the  sun 

In  their  eyes  living,  and  when  dead 

These  have  not  where  to  lay  their  head. 

They  have  no  tomb  to  dig,  and  hide; 

Earth  is  not  theirs,  that  they  should  sleep. 
On  all  these  tombless  crucified 

No  lovers'  eyes  have  time  to  weep. 
So  still,  for  all  man's  tears  and  creeds, 
The  sacred  body  hangs  and  bleeds. 


Through  the  left  hand  a  nail  is  driven, 
Faith,  and  another  through  the  right, 

Forged  in  the  fires  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Fear  that  puts  out  the  eye  of  light: 

And  the  feet  soiled  and  scarred  and  pale 

Are  pierced  with  falsehood  for  a  nail. 

And  priests  against  the  mouth  divine 
Push  their  sponge  full  of  poison  yet 

And  bitter  blood  for  myrrh  and  wine, 
And  on  the  same  reed  is  it  set 

Wherewith  before  they  buffeted 

The  people's  disanointed  head. 

O  sacred  head,  O  desecrate, 

O  labour- wounded  feet  and  hands, 

O  blood  poured  forth  in  pledge  to  fate 
Of  nameless  lives  in  divers  lands, 

O  slain  and  spent  and  sacrificed 

People,  the  grey-grown  speechless  Christ! 

• 

Is  there  a  gospel  in  the  red 

Old  witness  of  thy  wide-mouthed  wounds? 
From  thy  blind  stricken  tongueless  head 

What  desolate  evangel  sounds 
A  hopeless  note  of  hope  deferred? 
What  word,  if  there  be  any  word? 

O  son  of  man,  beneath  man's  feet 
Cast  down,  O  common  face  of  man 

Whereon  all  blows  and  buffets  meet, 
O  royal,  O  republican 

Face  of  the  people  bruised  and  dumb 

And  longing  till  thy  kingdom  come! 


The  soldiers  and  the  high  priests  part 
Thy  vesture:  all  thy  days  are  priced, 

And  all  the  nights  that  eat  thine  heart. 
And  that  one  seamless  coat  of  Christ, 

The  freedom  of  the  natural  soul, 

They  cast  their  lots  for  to  keep  whole. 

No  fragment  of  it  save  the  name 

They  leave  thee  for  a  crown  of  scorns 

Wherewith  to  mock  thy  naked  shame 
And  forehead  bitten  through  with  thorns 

And,  marked  with  sanguine  sweat  and  tears, 

The  stripes  of  eighteen  hundred  years. 

And  we  seek  yet  if  God  or  man 

Can  loosen  thee  as  Lazarus, 
Bid  thee  rise  up  republican 

And  save  thyself  and  all  of  us; 
But  no  disciple's  tongue  can  say 
When  thou  shalt  take  our  sins  away. 

And  mouldering  now  and  hoar  with  moss 
Between  us  and  the  sunlight  swings 

The  phantom  of  a  Christless  cross 

Shadowing  the  sheltered  heads  of  kings 

And  making  with  its  moving  shade 

The  souls  of  harmless  men  afraid. 

It  creaks  and  rocks  to  left  and  right, 
Consumed  of  rottenness  and  rust, 

Worm-eaten  of  the  worms  of  night, 
Dead  as  their  spirits  who  put  trust, 

Round  its  base  muttering  as  they  sit, 

In  the  time-cankered  name  of  it. 


72 


Thou,  in  the  day  that  breaks  thy  prison, 
People,  though  these  men  take  thy  name, 

And  hail  and  hymn  thee  rearisen, 

Who  made  songs  erewhile  of  thy  shame, 

Give  thou  not  ear;  for  these  are  they 

Whose  good  day  was  thine  evil  day. 

Set  not  thine  hand  unto  their  cross. 

Give  not  thy  soul  up  sacrificed. 
Change  not  the  gold  of  faith  for  dross 

Of  Christian  creeds  that  spit  on  Christ. 
Let  not  thy  tree  of  freedom  be 
Regrafted  from  that  rotting  tree. 

This  dead  God  here  against  my  face 
Hath  help  for  no  man;  who  hath  seen 

The  good  works  of  it,  or  such  grace 
As  thy  grace  in  it,  Nazarene, 

As  that  from  thy  live  lips  which  ran 

For  man's  sake,  O  thou  son  of  man? 

The  tree  of  faith  ingraffed  by  priests 
Puts  its  foul  foliage  out  above  thee, 

And  round  it  feed  man-eating  beasts 

Because  of  whom  we  dare  not  love  thee; 

Though  hearts  reach  back  and  memories  ache, 

We  cannot  praise  thee  for  their  sake. 

O  hidden  face  of  man,  whereover 

The  years  have  woven  a  viewless  veil, 

If  thou  wast  verily  man's  lover, 
What  did  thy  love  or  blood  avail? 

Thy  blood  the  priests  make  poison  of, 

And  in  gold  shekels  coin  thy  love. 


So  when  our  souls  look  back  to  thee 
They  sicken,  seeing  against  thy  side, 

Too  foul  to  speak  of  or  to  see, 
The  leprous  likeness  of  a  bride, 

Whose  kissing  lips  through  his  lips  grown 

Leave  their  God  rotten  to  the  bone. 

When  we  would  see  thee  man,  and  know 
What  heart  thou  hadst  toward  men  indeed, 

Lo,  thy  blood-blackened  altars;  lo, 
The  lips  of  priests  that  pray  and  feed 

While  their  own  hell's  worm  curls  and  licks 

The  poison  of  the  crucifix. 

Thou  bad'st  let  children  come  to  thee; 

What  children  now  but  curses  come? 
What  manhood  in  that  God  can  be 

Who  sees  their  worship,  and  is  dumb? 
No  soul  that  lived,  loved,  wrought,  and  died, 
Is  this  their  carrion  crucified. 

Nay,  if  their  God  and  thou  be  one, 
If  thou  and  this  thing  be  the  same, 

Thou  shouldst  not  look  upon  the  sun; 
The  sun  grows  haggard  at  thy  name. 

Come  down,  be  done  with,  cease,  give  o'er; 

Hide  thyself,  strive  not,  be  no  more. 


74 


TENEBRjfc 


Tthe  chill  high  tide  of  the  night, 
At  the  turn  of  the  fluctuant  hours, 
When  the  waters  of  time  are  at  height, 
In  a  vision  arose  on  my  sight 
The  kingdoms  of  earth  and  the  powers. 

In  a  dream  without  lightening  of  eyes 

I  saw  them,  children  of  earth, 
Nations  and  races  arise, 
Each  one  after  his  wise, 

Signed  with  the  sign  of  his  birth. 

Sound  was  none  of  their  feet, 

Light  was  none  of  their  faces; 
In  their  lips  breath  was  not,  or  heat, 
But  a  subtle  murmur  and  sweet 

As  of  water  in  wan  waste  places. 

Pale  as  from  passionate  years, 

Years  unassuaged  of  desire, 
Sang  they  soft  in  mine  ears, 
Crowned  with  jewels  of  tears, 

Girt  with  girdles  of  fire. 

A  slow  song  beaten  and  broken, 

As  it  were  from  the  dust  and  the  dead, 

As  of  spirits  athirst  unsloken, 

As  of  things  unspeakable  spoken, 
As  of  tears  unendurable  shed. 


In  the  manifold  sound  remote, 
In  the  molten  murmur  of  song, 

There  was  but  a  sharp  sole  note 

Alive  on  the  night  and  afloat, 

The  cry  of  the  world's  heart's  wrong. 

As  the  sea  in  the  strait  sea-caves, 

The  sound  came  straitened  and  strange; 

A  noise  of  the  rending  of  graves, 

A  tidal  thunder  of  waves, 

The  music  of  death  and  of  change. 

"We  have  waited  so  long,"  they  say, 

"For  a  sound  of  the  God,  for  a  breath, 
For  a  ripple  of  the  refluence  of  day, 
For  the  fresh  bright  wind  of  the  fray, 
For  the  light  of  the  sunrise  of  death. 

"We  have  prayed  not,  we,  to  be  strong, 

To  fulfil  the  desire  of  our  eyes; 
-Howbeit  they  have  watched  for  it  long, 
Watched,  and  the  night  did  them  wrong, 
Yet  they  say  not  of  day,  shall  it  rise? 

'They  are  fearful  and  feeble  with  years, 
Yet  they  doubt  not  of  day  if  it  be; 

Yea,  blinded  and  beaten  with  tears, 

Yea,  sick  with  foresight  of  fears, 
Yet  a  little,  and  hardly,  they  see. 

"We  pray  not,  we,  for  the  palm, 

For  the  fruit  ingraffed  of  the  fight, 
For  the  blossom  of  peace  and  the  balm, 
And  the  tender  triumph  and  calm 
Of  crownless  and  weaponless  right. 


76 


"We  pray  not,  we,  to  behold 

The  latter  august  new  birth, 
The  young  day's  purple  and  gold, 
And  divine,  and  rerisen  as  of  old, 

The  sun-god  Freedom  on  earth. 

"  Peace,  and  world's  honour,  and  fame, 

We  have  sought  after  none  of  these  things; 

The  light  of  a  life  like  flame 

Passing,  the  storm  of  a  name 

Shaking  the  strongholds  of  kings: 

"Nor,  fashioned  of  fire  and  of  air, 

The  splendour  that  burns  on  his  head 

Who  was  chiefest  in  ages  that  were, 

Whose  breath  blew  palaces  bare, 
Whose  eye  shone  tyrannies  dead: 

"All  these  things  in  your  day 

Ye  shall  see,  O  our  sons,  and  shall  hold 
Surely;  but  we,  in  the  grey 
Twilight,  for  one  thing  we  pray, 

In  that  day  though  our  memories  be  cold: 

'  To  feel  on  our  brows  as  we  wait 

An  air  of  the  morning,  a  breath 
From  the  springs  of  the  east,  from  the  gate 
Whence  freedom  issues,  and  fate, 

Sorrow,  and  triumph,  and  death: 

"From  a  land  whereon  time  hath  not  trod, 
Where  the  spirit  is  bondless  and  bare, 
And  the  world's  rein  breaks,  and  the  rod, 
And  the  soul  of  a  man,  which  is  God, 
He  adores  without  altar  or  prayer: 


77 


"For  alone  of  herself  and  her  right 
She  takes,  and  alone  gives  grace: 
And  the  colours  of  things  lose  light, 
And  the  forms,  in  the  limitless  white 
Splendour  of  space  without  space: 

"And  the  blossom  of  man  from  his  tomb 
Yearns  open,  the  flower  that  survives; 

And  the  shadows  of  changes  consume 

In  the  colourless  passionate  bloom 
Of  the  live  light  made  of  our  lives: 

"  Seeing  each  life  given  is  a  leaf 
Of  the  manifold  multiform  flower, 

And  the  least  among  these,  and  the  chief, 

As  an  ear  in  the  red-ripe  sheaf 
Stored  for  the  harvesting  hour. 

"O  spirit  of  man,  most  holy, 

The  measure  of  things  and  the  root, 

In  our  summers  and  winters  a  lowly 

Seed,  putting  forth  of  them  slowly 
Thy  supreme  blossom  and  fruit; 

"In  thy  sacred  and  perfect  year, 

The  souls  that  were  parcel  of  thee 
In  the  labour  and  life  of  us  here 
Shall  be  rays  of  thy  sovereign  sphere, 
Springs  of  thy  motion  shall  be. 

'  There  is  the  fire  that  was  man, 

The  light  that  was  love,  and  the  breath 
That  was  hope  ere  deliverance  began, 
And  the  wind  that  was  life  for  a  span, 

And  the  birth  of  new.things,  which  is  death. 


'There,  whosoever  had  light, 
And,  having,  for  men's  sake  gave; 

All  that  warred  against  night; 

All  that  were  found  in  the  fight 
Swift  to  be  slain  and  to  save; 

"Undisbranched  of  the  storms  that  disroot  us, 
Of  the  lures  that  enthrall  unenticed; 

The  names  that  exalt  and  transmute  us; 

The  blood-bright  splendour  of  Brutus, 
The  snow-bright  splendour  of  Christ. 

'There  all  chains  are  undone; 

Day  there  seems  but  as  night; 
Spirit  and  sense  are  as  one 
In  the  light  not  of  star  nor  of  sun; 

Liberty  there  is  the  light. 

"She,  sole  mother  and  maker, 

Stronger  than  sorrow,  than  strife ; 

Deathless,  though  death  overtake  her; 

Faithful,  though  faith  should  forsake  her; 
Spirit,  and  saviour,  and  life." 


79 


HYMN  OF  MAN 
During  the  Session  in  Rome  of  the  (Ecumenical  Council 

IN  the  grey  beginning  of  years,  in  the  twilight  of  things  that  began, 
The  word  of  the  earth  in  the  ears  of  the  world,  was  it  God?  was  it  man? 
The  word  of  the  earth  to  the  spheres  her  sisters,  the  note  of  her  song, 
The  sound  of  her  speech  in  the  ears  of  the  starry  and  sisterly  throng, 
Was  it  praise  or  passion  or  prayer,  was  it  love  or  devotion  or  dread, 
When  the  veils  of  the  shining  air  first  wrapt  her  jubilant  head? 
When  her  eyes  new-born  of  the  night  saw  yet  no  star  out  of  reach; 
When  her  maiden  mouth  was  alight  with  the  flame  of  musical  speech; 
When  her  virgin  feet  were  set  on  the  terrible  heavenly  way, 
And  her  virginal  lids  were  wet  with  the  dew  of  the  birth  of  the  day: 
Eyes  that  had  looked  not  on  time,  and  ears  that  had  heard  not  of  death; 
Lips  that  had  learnt  not  the  rhyme  of  change  and  passionate  breath, 
The  rhythmic  anguish  of  growth,  and  the  motion  of  mutable  things, 
Of  love  that  longs  and  is  loth,  and  plume-plucked  hope  without  wings, 
Passions  and  pains  without  number,  and  life  that  runs  and  is  lame, 
From  slumber  again  to  slumber,  the  same  race  set  for  the  same, 
Where  the  runners  outwear  each  other,  but  running  with  lampless  hands 
No  man  takes  light  from  his  brother  till  blind  at  the  goal  he  stands: 
Ah,  did  they  know,  did  they  dream  of  it,  counting  the  cost  and  the  worth? 
The  ways  of  her  days,  did  they  seem  then  good  to  the  new-souled  earth? 
Did  her  heart  rejoice,  and  the  might  of  her  spirit  exult  in  her  then, 
Child  yet  no  child  of  the  night,  and  motherless  mother  of  men? 
Was  it  Love  brake  forth  flower-fashion,  a  bird  with  gold  on  his  wings, 
Lovely,  her  firstborn  passion,  and  impulse  of  firstborn  things? 
Was  Love  that  nestling  indeed  that  under  the  plumes  of  the  night 
Was  hatched  and  hidden  as  seed  in  the  furrow,  and  brought  forth  bright? 
Was  it  Love  lay  shut  in  the  shell  world-shaped,  having  over  him  there 
Black  world-wide  wings  that  impel  the  might  of  the  night  through  air? 
And  bursting  his  shell  as  a  bird,  night  shook  through  her  sail-stretched  vans, 
And  her  heart  as  a  water  was  stirred,  and  its  heat  was  the  firstborn  man's. 
For  the  waste  of  the  dead  void  air  took  form  of  a  world  at  birth, 
And  the  waters  and  firmaments  were,  and  light,  and  the  life-giving  earth. 
The  beautiful  bird  unbegotten  that  night  brought  forth  without  pain 
In  the  fathomless  years  forgotten  whereover  the  dead  gods  reign, 
80 


Was  it  love,  life,  godhead,  or  fate?  we  say  the  spirit  is  one 
That  moved  on  the  dark  to  create  out  of  darkness  the  stars  and  the  sun. 
Before  the  growth  was  the  grower,  and  the  seed  ere  the  plant  was  sown; 
But  what  was  seed  of  the  sower?  &  the  grain  of  him,  whence  was  it  grown? 
Foot  after  foot  ye  go  back  and  travail  and  make  yourselves  mad; 
Blind  feet  that  feel  for  the  track  where  highway  is  none  to  be  had. 
Therefore  the  God  that  ye  make  you  is  grievous,  and  gives  not  aid, 
Because  it  is  but  for  your  sake  that  the  God  of  your  making  is  made. 
Thou  and  I  and  he  are  not  gods  made  men  for  a  span, 
But  God,  if  a  God  there  be,  is  the  substance  of  men  which  is  man. 
Our  lives  are  as  pulses  or  pores  of  his  manifold  body  and  breath; 
As  waves  of  his  sea  on  the  shores  where  birth  is  the  beacon  of  death. 
We  men,  the  multiform  features  of  man,  whatsoever  we  be, 
Recreate  him  of  whom  we  are  creatures,  and  all  we  only  are  he. 
Not  each  man  of  all  men  is  God,  but  God  is  the  fruit  of  the  whole; 
Indivisible  spirit  and  blood,  indiscernible  body  from  soul. 
Not  men's  but  man's  is  the  glory  of  godhead,  the  kingdom  of  time, 
The  mountainous  ages  made  hoary  with  snows  for  the  spirit  to  climb. 
A  God  with  the  world  inwound  whose  clay  to  his  footsole  clings; 
A  manifold  God  fast-bound  as  with  iron  of  adverse  things. 
A  soul  that  labours  and  lives,  an  emotion,  a  strenuous  breath, 
From  the  flame  that  its  own  mouth  gives  reillumed,  6"  refreshed  with  death. 
In  the  sea  whereof  centuries  are  waves  the  live  God  plunges  and  swims; 
His  bed  is  in  all  men's  graves,  but  the  worm  hath  not  hold  on  his  limbs. 
Night  puts  out  not  his  eyes,  nor  time  sheds  change  on  his  head; 
With  such  fire  as  the  stars  of  the  skies  are  the  roots  of  his  heart  are  fed. 
Men  are  the  thoughts  passing  through  it,  the  veins  that  fulfil  it  with  blood, 
With  spirit  of  sense  to  renew  it  as  springs  fulfilling  a  flood. 
Men  are  the  heartbeats  of  man,  the  plumes  that  feather  his  wings, 
Storm-worn,  since  being  began,  with  the  wind  and  thunder  of  things. 
Things  are  cruel  and  blind;  their  strength  detains  and  deforms: 
And  the  wearying  wings  of  the  mind  still  beat  up  the  stream  of  their  storms. 
Still,  as  one  swimming  up  stream,  they  strike  out  blind  in  the  blast, 
In  thunders  of  vision  and  dream,  and  lightnings  of  future  and  past. 
We  are  baffled  and  caught  in  the  current  &  bruised  upon  edges  of  shoals; 
As  weeds  or  as  reeds  in  the  torrent  of  things  are  the  wind-shaken  souls. 
Spirit  by  spirit  goes  under,  a  foam-bell's  bubble  of  breath, 
That  blows  and  opens  in  sunder  and  blurs  not  the  mirror  of  death, 
m  81 


For  a  worm  or  a  thorn  in  his  path  is  a  man's  soul  quenched  as  a  flame; 

For  his  lust  of  an  hour  or  his  wrath  shall  the  worm  and  the  man  be  the  same. 

O  God  sore  stricken  of  things!  they  have  wrought  him  a  raiment  of  pain; 

Can  a  God  shut  eyelids  and  wings  at  a  touch  on  the  nerves  of  the  brain? 

O  shamed  and  sorrowful  God,  whose  force  goes  out  at  a  blow! 

What  world  shall  shake  at  his  nod?  at  his  coming  what  wilderness  glow? 

What  help  in  the  work  of  his  hands?  what  light  in  the  track  of  his  feet? 

His  days  are  snowflakes  or  sands,  with  cold  to  consume  him  and  heat. 

He  is  servant  with  Change  for  lord,  and  for  wages  he  hath  to  his  hire 

Folly  and  force,  and  a  sword  that  devours,  and  a  ravening  fire. 

From  the  bed  of  his  birth  to  his  grave  he  is  driven  as  a  wind  at  their  will; 

Lest  Change  bow  down  as  his  slave,  and  the  storm  and  the  sword  be  still; 

Lest  earth  spread  open  her  wings  to  the  sunward,  and  sing  with  the  spheres; 

Lest  man  be  master  of  things,  to  prevail  on  their  forces  and  fears. 

By  the  spirit  are  things  overcome;  they  are  stark,  and  the  spirit  hath  breath; 

It  hath  speech,  and  their  forces  are  dumb;  it  is  living,  and  things  are  of  death. 

But  they  know  not  the  spirit  for  master,  they  feel  not  force  from  above, 

While  man  makes  love  to  disaster,  and  woos  desolation  with  love. 

Yea,  himself  too  hath  made  himself  chains,  &  his  own  hands  plucked  out  his  eyes; 

For  his  own  soul  only  constrains  him,  his  own  mouth  only  denies. 

The  herds  of  kings  and  their  hosts  and  the  flocks  of  the  high  priests  bow 
To  a  master  whose  face  is  a  ghost's;  O  thou  that  wast  God,  is  it  thou? 

^hou  madest  man  in  the  garden;  thou  temptedst  man,  and  he  fell; 

Thou  gavest  him  poison  and  pardon  for  blood  and  burnt-offering  to  sell. 
Thou  hast  sealed  thine  elect  to  salvation,  fast  locked  with  faith  for  the  key; 
Make  now  for  thyself  expiation,  and  be  thine  atonement  for  thee. 
Ah,  thou  that  darkenest  heaven  -  ah,  thou  that  bringest  a  sword  - 
By  the  crimes  of  thine  hands  unforgiven  they  beseech  thee  to  hear  them,  O  Lord. 
By  the  balefires  of  ages  that  burn  for  thine  incense,  by  creed  and  by  rood, 
By  the  famine  and  passion  that  yearn  and  that  hunger  to  find  of  thee  food, 
By  the  children  that  asked  at  thy  throne  of  the  priests  that  were  fat  with  thine  hire 
For  bread,  and  thou  gavest  a  stone;  for  light,  and  thou  madest  them  fire; 
By  the  kiss  of  thy  peace  like  a  snake's  kiss,  that  leaves  the  soul  rotten  at  root; 
By  the  savours  of  gibbets  and  stakes  thou  hast  planted  to  bear  to  thee  fruit; 
By  torture  and  terror  and  treason,  that  make  to  thee  weapons  and  wings; 
By  thy  power  upon  men  for  a  season,  made  out  of  the  malice  of  things; 
O  thou  that  hast  built  thee  a  shrine  of  the  madness  of  man  and  his  shame, 
And  hast  hung  in  the  midst  for  a  sign  of  his  worship  the  lamp  of  thy  name; 
82 


That  hast  shown  him  for  heaven  in  a  vision  a  void  world's  shadow  and  shell, 
And  hast  fed  thy  delight  and  derision  with  fire  of  belief  as  of  hell; 
That  hast  fleshed  on  the  souls  that  believe  thee  the  fang  of  the  death-worm  fear. 
With  anguish  of  dreams  to  deceive  them  whose  faith  cries  out  in  thine  ear; 
By  the  face  of  the  spirit  confounded  before  thee  and  humbled  in  dust, 
By  the  dread  wherewith  life  was  astounded  and  shamed  out  of  sense  of  its  trust, 
By  the  scourges  of  doubt  and  repentance  that  fell  on  the  soul  at  thy  nod, 
Thou  art  judged,  O  judge,  and  the  sentence  is  gone  forth  against  thee,  O  God. 
Thy  slave  that  slept  is  awake;  thy  slave  but  slept  for  a  span ; 
Yea,  man  thy  slave  shall  unmake  thee,  who  made  thee  lord  over  man. 
For  his  face  is  set  to  the  east,  his  feet  on  the  past  and  its  dead; 
The  sun  rearisen  is  his  priest,  and  the  heat  thereof  hallows  his  head. 
His  eyes  take  part  in  the  morning;  his  spirit  outsounding  the  sea 
Asks  no  more  witness  or  warning  from  temple  or  tripod  or  tree. 
He  hath  set  the  centuries  at  union;  the  night  is  afraid  at  his  name; 
Equal  with  life,  in  communion  with  death,  he  hath  found  them  the  same. 
Past  the  wall  unsurmounted  that  bars  out  our  vision  with  iron  and  fire 
He  hath  sent  forth  his  soul  for  the  stars  to  comply  with  and  suns  to  conspire. 
His  thought  takes  flight  for  the  centre  wherethrough  it  hath  part  in  the  whole; 
The  abysses  forbid  it  not  enter:  the  stars  make  room  for  the  soul. 
Space  is  the  soul's  to  inherit;  the  night  is  hers  as  the  day; 
Lo,  saith  man,  this  is  my  spirit;  how  shall  not  the  worlds  make  way? 
Space  is  thought's,  and  the  wonders  thereof,  and  the  secret  of  space; 
Is  thought  not  more  than  the  thunders  and  lightnings?  shall  thought  give  place? 
Is  the  body  not  more  than  the  vesture,  the  life  not  more  than  the  meat? 
The  will  than  the  word  or  the  gesture,  the  heart  than  the  hands  or  the  feet? 
Is  the  tongue  not  more  than  the  speech  is?  the  head  not  more  than  the  crown? 
And  if  higher  than  is  heaven  be  the  reach  of  the  soul,  shall  not  heaven  bow  down? 
Time,  father  of  life,  and  more  great  than  the  life  it  begat  and  began, 
Earth's  keeper  &  heaven's  &  their  fate,  lives,  thinks,  cr  hath  substance  in  man. 
Time's  motion  that  throbs  in  his  blood  is  the  thought  that  gives  heart  to  the  skies, 
And  the  springs  of  the  fire  that  is  food  to  the  sunbeams  are  light  to  his  eyes. 
The  minutes  that  beat  with  his  heart  are  the  words  to  which  worlds  keep  chime, 
And  the  thought  in  his  pulses  is  part  of  the  blood  and  the  spirit  of  time. 
He  saith  to  the  ages,  Give;  and  his  soul  foregoes  not  her  share; 
Who  are  ye  that  forbid  him  to  live,  and  would  feed  him  with  heavenlier  air? 
Will  ye  feed  him  with  poisonous  dust,  and  restore  him  with  hemlock  for  drink, 
Till  he  yield  you  his  soul  up  in  trust,  and  have  heart  not  to  know  or  to  think? 

83 


He  hath  stirred  him,  and  found  out  the  flaw  in  his  fetters,  &  cast  them  behind; 
His  soul  to  his  soul  is  a  law,  and  his  mind  is  a  light  to  his  mind. 
The  seal  of  his  knowledge  is  sure,  the  truth  and  his  spirit  are  wed; 
Men  perish,  but  man  shall  endure;  lives  die,  but  the  life  is  not  dead. 
He  hath  sight  of  the  secrets  of  season,  the  roots  of  the  years  and  the  fruits; 
His  soul  is  at  one  with  the  reason  of  things  that  is  sap  to  the  roots. 
He  can  hear  in  their  changes  a  sound  as  the  conscience  of  consonant  spheres; 
He  can  see  through  the  years  flowing  round  him  the  law  lying  under  the  years. 
Who  areye  that  would  bind  him  with  curses  &  blind  him  with  vapour  of  prayer? 
Your  might  is  as  night  that  disperses  when  light  is  alive  in  the  air. 
The  bow  of  your  godhead  is  broken,  the  arm  of  your  conquest  is  stayed; 
Though  ye  call  down  God  to  bear  token,  for  fear  of  you  none  is  afraid. 
Will  ye  turn  back  times,  and  the  courses  of  stars,  and  the  season  of  souls? 
Shall  God's  breath  dry  up  the  sources  that  feed  time  full  as  it  rolls? 
Nay,  cry  on  him  then  till  he  show  you  a  sign,  till  he  lift  up  a  rod; 
Hath  he  made  not  the  nations  to  know  him  of  old  if  indeed  he  be  God? 
Is  no  heat  of  him  left  in  the  ashes  of  thousands  burnt  up  for  his  sake? 
Can  prayer  not  rekindle  the  flashes  that  shone  in  his  face  from  the  stake? 
Cry  aloud;  for  your  God  is  a  God  and  a  Saviour;  cry,  make  yourselves  lean; 
Is  he  drunk  or  asleep,  that  the  rod  of  his  wrath  is  unfelt  and  unseen? 
Is  the  fire  of  his  old  loving-kindness  gone  out,  that  his  pyres  are  acold? 
Hath  he  gazed  on  himself  unto  blindness,  who  made  men  blind  to  behold? 
Cry  out,  for  his  kingdom  is  shaken;  cry  out,  for  the  people  blaspheme; 
Cry  aloud  till  his  godhead  awaken;  what  doth  he  to  sleep  and  to  dream? 
Cry,  cut  yourselves,  gash  you  with  knives  &  with  scourges,  heap  on  to  you  dust; 
Is  his  life  but  as  other  gods'  lives?  is  not  this  the  Lord  God  of  your  trust? 
Is  not  this  the  great  God  of  your  sires,  that  with  souls  and  with  bodies  was  fed, 
And  the  world  was  on  flame  with  his  fires?  O  fools,  he  was  God,  and  is  dead. 
He  will  hear  not  again  the  strong  crying  of  earth  in  his  ears  as  before, 
And  the  fume  of  his  multitudes  dying  shall  flatter  his  nostrils  no  more. 
By  the  spirit  he  ruled  as  his  slave  is  he  slain  who  was  mighty  to  slay, 
And  the  stone  that  is  sealed  on  his  grave  he  shall  rise  not  and  roll  not  away. 
Yea,  weep  to  him,  lift  up  your  hands;  be  your  eyes  as  a  fountain  of  tears; 
Where  he  stood  there  is  nothing  that  stands;  if  he  call,  there  is  no  man  that  hears. 
He  hath  doffed  his  king's  raiment  of  lies  now  the  wane  of  his  kingdom  is  come ; 
Ears  hath  he,  and  hears  not;  and  eyes,  and  he  sees  not;  and  mouth,  and  is  dumb. 
His  red  king's  raiment  is  ripped  from  him  naked,  his  staff  broken  down; 
And  the  signs  of  his  empire  are  stripped  from  him  shuddering;  &  where  is  his  crown? 
84 


And  in  vain  by  the  wellsprings  refrozen  ye  cry  for  the  warmth  of  his  sun  - 
O  God,  the  Lord  God  of  thy  chosen,  thy  will  in  thy  kingdom  be  done. 
Kingdom  and  will  hath  he  none  in  him  left  him,  nor  warmth  in  his  breath; 
Till  his  corpse  be  cast  out  of  the  sun  will  ye  know  not  the  truth  of  his  death? 
Surely, ye  say,  he  is  strong,  though  the  times  be  against  him  and  men; 
Yet  a  little,  ye  say,  and  how  long,  till  he  come  to  show  judgment  again? 
Shall  God  then  die  as  the  beasts  die?  who  is  it  hath  broken  his  rod? 
O  God,  Lord  God  of  thy  priests,  rise  up  now  and  show  thyself  God. 
They  cry  out,  thine  elect,  thine  aspirants  to  heaven  ward,  whose  faith  is  as  flame; 
O  thou  the  Lord  God  of  our  tyrants,  they  call  thee,  their  God,  by  thy  name. 
By  thy  name  that  in  hell-fire  was  written,  and  burned  at  the  point  of  thy  sword, 
Thou  art  smitten,  thou  God,  thou  art  smitten;  thy  death  is  upon  thee,  O  Lord. 
And  the  love-song  of  earth  as  thou  diest  resounds  through  the  wind  of  her  wings  - 
Glory  to  Man  in  the  highest!  for  Man  is  the  master  of  things. 


THE  PILGRIMS 


HO  is  your  lady  of  love,  O  ye  that  pass 
Singing?  and  is  it  for  sorrow  of  that  which  was 
That  ye  sing  sadly,  or  dream  of  what  shall  be? 
For  gladly  at  once  and  sadly  it  seems  ye  sing. 

-  Our  lady  of  love  by  you  is  unbeholden; 

For  hands  she  hath  none,  nor  eyes,  nor  lips,  nor  golden 
Treasure  of  hair,  nor  face  nor  form;  but  we 

That  love,  we  know  her  more  fair  than  anything. 

-  Is  she  a  queen,  having  great  gifts  to  give? 

-Yea,  these;  that  whoso  hath  seen  her  shall  not  live 
Except  he  serve  her  sorrowing,  with  strange  pain, 

Travail  and  bloodshedding  and  bitterer  tears; 
And  when  she  bids  die  he  shall  surely  die. 
And  he  shall  leave  all  things  under  the  sky 
And  go  forth  naked  under  sun  and  rain 

And  work  and  wait  and  watch  out  all  his  years. 

-  Hath  she  on  earth  no  place  of  habitation? 

-  Age  to  age  calling,  nation  answering  nation, 

Cries  out,  Where  is  she?  and  there  is  none  to  say; 

For  if  she  be  not  in  the  spirit  of  men, 
For  if  in  the  inward  soul  she  hath  no  place, 
In  vain  they  cry  unto  her,  seeking  her  face, 

In  vain  their  mouths  make  much  of  her;  for  they 
Cry  with  vain  tongues,  till  the  heart  lives  again. 


86 


-  O  ye  that  follow,  and  have  ye  no  repentance? 
For  on  your  brows  is  written  a  mortal  sentence, 

An  hieroglyph  of  sorrow,  a  fiery  sign, 

That  in  your  lives  ye  shall  not  pause  or  rest, 
Nor  have  the  sure  sweet  common  love,  nor  keep 
Friends  and  safe  days,  nor  joy  of  life  nor  sleep. 

-These  have  we  not,  who  have  one  thing,  the  divine 
Face  and  clear  eyes  of  faith  and  fruitful  breast. 

-  And  ye  shall  die  before  your  thrones  be  won. 

-  Yea,  and  the  changed  world  and  the  liberal  sun 

Shall  move  and  shine  without  us,  and  we  lie 

Dead;  but  if  she  too  move  on  earth  and  live, 
But  if  the  old  world  with  all  the  old  irons  rent 
Laugh  and  give  thanks,  shall  we  be  not  content? 
Nay,  we  shall  rather  live,  we  shall  not  die, 
Life  being  so  little  and  death  so  good  to  give. 

-  And  these  men  shall  forget  you.  -  Yea,  but  we 
Shall  be  a  part  of  the  earth  and  the  ancient  sea, 

And  heaven-high  air  august,  and  awful  fire, 

And  all  things  good;  6-  no  man's  heart  shall  beat 
But  somewhat  in  it  of  our  blood  once  shed 
Shall  quiver  and  quicken,  as  now  in  us  the  dead 
Blood  of  men  slain  and  the  old  same  life's  desire 
Plants  in  their  fiery  footprints  our  fresh  feet. 

-  But  ye  that  might  be  clothed  with  all  things  pleasant, 
Ye  are  foolish  that  put  off  the  fair  soft  present, 

That  clothe  yourselves  with  the  cold  future  air; 

When  mother  &  father  &  tender  sister  &  brother 
And  the  old  live  love  that  was  shall  be  as  ye, 
Dust,  and  no  fruit  of  loving  life  shall  be. 

-  She  shall  be  yet  who  is  more  than  all  these  were, 
Than  sister  or  wife  or  father  unto  us  or  mother. 


87 


-  Is  this  worth  life,  is  this,  to  win  for  wages? 

Lo,  the  dead  mouths  of  the  awful  grey-grown  ages, 
The  venerable,  in  the  past  that  is  their  prison, 

In  the  outer  darkness,  in  the  unopening  grave, 
Laugh,  knowing  how  many  as  ye  now  say  have  said, 
How  many,  and  all  are  fallen,  are  fallen  and  dead: 
Shall  ye  dead  rise,  and  these  dead  have  not  risen? 
-  Not  we  but  she,  who  is  tender  and  swift  to  save. 

-  Are  ye  not  weary  and  faint  not  by  the  way, 
Seeing  night  by  night  devoured  of  day  by  day, 

Seeing  hour  by  hour  consumed  in  sleepless  fire? 
Sleepless;  and  ye  too,  when  shall  ye  too  sleep? 

-  We  are  weary  in  heart  and  head,  in  hands  and  feet, 
And  surely  more  than  all  things  sleep  were  sweet, 

Than  all  things  save  the  inexorable  desire 

Which  whoso  knoweth  shall  neither  faint  nor  weep. 

-  Is  this  so  sweet  that  one  were  fain  to  follow? 
Is  this  so  sure  where  all  men's  hopes  are  hollow, 

Even  this  your  dream,  that  by  much  tribulation 

Ye  shall  make  whole  flawed  hearts,  &  bowed  necks  straight? 

-  Nay,  though  our  life  were  blind,  our  death  were  fruitless, 
Not  therefore  were  the  whole  world's  high  hope  rootless; 

But  man  to  man,  nation  would  turn  to  nation, 

And  the  old  life  live,  and  the  old  great  word  be  great. 

-  Pass  on  then  and  pass  by  us  and  let  us  be, 
For  what  light  think  ye  after  life  to  see? 

And  if  the  world  fare  better  will  ye  know? 

And  if  man  triumph  who  shall  seek  you  and  say? 

-  Enough  of  light  is  this  for  one  life's  span, 
That  all  men  born  are  mortal,  but  not  man: 

And  we  men  bring  death  lives  by  night  to  sow, 
That  man  may  reap  and  eat  and  live  by  day. 


ARMAND  BARBES 


FIRE  out  of  heaven,  a  flower  of  perfect  fire, 
That  where  the  roots  of  life  are  had  its  root 
And  where  the  fruits  of  time  are  brought  forth  fruit ; 
A  faith  made  flesh,  a  visible  desire, 
That  heard  the  yet  unbreathing  years  respire 
And  speech  break  forth  of  centuries  that  sit  mute 
Beyond  all  feebler  footprint  of  pursuit; 
That  touched  the  highest  of  hope,  &  went  up  higher; 
A  heart  love-wounded  whereto  love  was  law, 
A  soul  reproachless  without  fear  or  flaw, 

A  shining  spirit  without  shadow  of  shame, 
A  memory  made  of  all  men's  love  and  awe; 
Being  disembodied,  so  thou  be  the  same, 
What  need,  O  soul,  to  sign  thee  with  thy  name? 

•  • 

11 
All  woes  of  all  men  sat  upon  thy  soul 

And  all  their  wrongs  were  heavy  on  thy  head; 

With  all  their  wounds  thy  heart  was  pierced  &  bled, 
And  in  thy  spirit  as  in  a  mourning  scroll 
The  world's  huge  sorrows  were  inscribed  by  roll, 

All  theirs  on  earth  who  serve  and  faint  for  bread, 

All  banished  men's,  all  theirs  in  prison  dead, 
Thy  love  had  heart  and  sword-hand  for  the  whole. 
'This  was  my  day  of  glory,"  didst  thou  say, 

When,  by  the  scaffold  thou  hadst  hope  to  climb 
For  thy  faith's  sake,  they  brought  thee  respite;  "Nay, 
I  shall  not  die  then,  I  have  missed  my  day." 

O  hero,  O  our  help,  O  head  sublime, 

Thy  day  shall  be  commensurate  with  time. 

n  89 


QUIA  MULTUM  AMAVIT 

^  M  I  not  he  that  hath  made  thee  and  begotten  thee, 
/  %    .,  I,  God,  the  spirit  of  man? 

j    "\  Wherefore  now  these  eighteen  years  hast  thou  forgotten  me, 
JL       JL  From  whom  thy  life  began? 

Thy  life-blood  and  thy  life-breath  and  thy  beauty, 

Thy  might  of  hands  and  feet, 
Thy  soul  made  strong  for  divinity  of  duty 

And  service  which  was  sweet. 
Through  the  red  sea  brimmed  with  blood  didst  thou  not  follow  me, 

As  one  that  walks  in  trance? 
Was  the  storm  strong  to  break  or  the  sea  to  swallow  thee, 

When  thou  wast  free  and  France? 
I  am  Freedom,  God  and  man,  O  France,  that  plead  with  thee; 

How  long  now  shall  I  plead? 
Was  I  not  with  thee  in  travail,  and  in  need  with  thee, 

Thy  sore  travail  and  need? 
Thou  wast  fairest  and  first  of  my  virgin-vested  daughters, 

Fairest  and  foremost  thou; 
And  thy  breast  was  white,  though  thy  hands  were  red  with  slaughters, 

Thy  breast,  a  harlot's  now. 
O  foolish  virgin  and  fair  among  the  fallen, 

A  ruin  where  satyrs  dance, 
A  garden  wasted  for  beasts  to  crawl  and  brawl  in, 

What  hast  thou  done  with  France? 
Where  is  she  who  bared  her  bosom  but  to  thunder, 

Her  brow  to  storm  and  flame, 
And  before  her  face  was  the  red  sea  cloven  in  sunder 

And  all  its  waves  made  tame? 


90 


And  the  surf  wherein  the  broad-based  rocks  were  shaking 

She  saw  far  off  divide, 
At  the  blast  of  the  breath  of  the  battle  blown  &  breaking, 

And  weight  of  wind  and  tide; 
And  the  ravin  and  the  ruin  of  throned  nations 

And  every  royal  race, 
And  the  kingdoms  &  kings  from  the  state  of  their  high  stations 

That  fell  before  her  face. 
Yea,  great  was  the  fall  of  them,  all  that  rose  against  her, 

From  the  earth's  old-historied  heights; 
For  my  hands  were  fire,  &  my  wings  as  walls  that  fenced  her, 

Mine  eyes  as  pilot-lights. 
Not  as  guerdons  given  of  kings  the  gifts  I  brought  her, 

Not  strengths  that  pass  away; 
But  my  heart,  my  breath  of  life,  O  France,  O  daughter, 

I  gave  thee  in  that  day. 
Yea,  the  heart's  blood  of  a  very  God  I  gave  thee, 

Breathed  in  thy  mouth  his  breath; 
Was  my  word  as  a  man's,  having  no  more  strength  to  save  thee 

From  this  worse  thing  than  death? 
Didst  thou  dream  of  it  only,  the  day  that  I  stood  nigh  thee, 

Was  all  its  light  a  dream? 
When  that  iron  surf  roared  backwards  and  went  by  thee 

Unscathed  of  storm  or  stream: 
When  thy  sons  rose  up  and  thy  young  men  stood  together, 

One  equal  face  of  fight, 
And  my  flag  swam  high  as  the  swimming  sea-foam's  feather, 

Laughing,  a  lamp  of  light? 
Ah  the  lordly  laughter  and  light  of  it,  that  lightened 

Heaven-high,  the  heaven's  whole  length! 
Ah  the  hearts  of  heroes  pierced,  the  bright  lips  whitened    • 

Of  strong  men  in  their  strength! 
Ah  the  banner-poles,  the  stretch  of  straightening  streamers 

Straining  their  full  reach  out! 
Ah  the  men's  hands  making  true  the  dreams  of  dreamers, 

The  hopes  brought  forth  in  doubt! 


Ah  the  noise  of  horse,  the  charge  and  thunder  of  drumming, 

And  swaying  and  sweep  of  swords! 
Ah  the  light  that  led  them  through  of  the  world's  life  coming, 

Clear  of  its  lies  and  lords! 
By  the  lightning  of  the  lips  of  guns  whose  flashes 

Made  plain  the  strayed  world's  way; 
By  the  flame  that  left  her  dead  old  sins  in  ashes, 

Swept  out  of  sight  of  day; 
By  thy  children  whose  bare  feet  were  shod  with  thunder, 

Their  bare  hands  mailed  with  fire; 
By  the  faith  that  went  with  them,  waking  fear  and  wonder, 

Heart's  love  and  high  desire; 
By  the  tumult  of  the  waves  of  nations  waking 

Blind  in  the  loud  wide  night; 
By  the  wind  that  went  on  the  world's  waste  waters,  making 

Their  marble  darkness  white, 
As  the  flash  of  the  flakes  of  the  foam  flared  lamplike,  leaping 

From  wave  to  gladdening  wave, 
Making  wide  the  fast-shut  eyes  of  thraldom  sleeping 

The  sleep  of  the  unclean  grave; 
By  the  fire  of  equality,  terrible,  devouring, 

Divine,  that  brought  forth  good; 
By  the  lands  it  purged  and  wasted  and  left  flowering 

With  bloom  of  brotherhood; 
By  the  lips  of  fraternity  that  for  love's  sake  uttered 

Fierce  words  and  fires  of  death, 
But  the  eyes  were  deep  as  love's,  &  the  fierce  lips  fluttered 

With  love's  own  living  breath; 
By  thy  weaponed  hands,  brows  helmed,  &  bare  feet  spurning 

The  bared  head  of  a  king; 
By  the  storm  of  sunrise  round  thee  risen  and  burning, 

Why  hast  thou  done  this  thing? 
Thou  hast  mixed  thy  limbs  with  the  son  of  a  harlot,  a  stranger, 

Mouth  to  mouth,  limb  to  limb, 
Thou,  bride  of  a  God,  because  of  the  bridesman  Danger, 

To  bring  forth  seed  to  him. 


92 


For  thou  thoughtest  inly,  the  terrible  bridegroom  wakes  me, 

When  I  would  sleep,  to  go; 
The  fire  of  his  mouth  consumes,  and  the  red  kiss  shakes  me, 

More  bitter  than  a  blow. 
Rise  up,  my  beloved,  go  forth  to  meet  the  stranger, 

Put  forth  thine  arm,  he  saith; 
Fear  thou  not  at  all  though  the  bridesman  should  be  Danger, 

The  bridesmaid  should  be  Death. 
I  the  bridegroom,  am  I  not  with  thee,  O  bridal  nation, 

O  wedded  France,  to  strive? 
To  destroy  the  sins  of  the  earth  with  divine  devastation, 

Till  none  be  left  alive? 
Lo  her  growths  of  sons,  foliage  of  men  and  frondage, 

Broad  boughs  of  the  old-world  tree, 
With  iron  of  shame  and  with  pruning-hooks  of  bondage 

They  are  shorn  from  sea  to  sea. 
Lo,  I  set  wings  to  thy  feet  that  have  been  wingless, 

Till  the  utter  race  be  run; 
Till  the  priestless  temples  cry  to  the  thrones  made  kingless, 

Are  we  not  also  undone? 
Till  the  immeasurable  Republic  arise  and  lighten 

Above  these  quick  and  dead, 
And  her  awful  robes  be  changed,  and  her  red  robes  whiten, 

Her  warring-robes  of  red. 
But  thou  wouldst  not,  saying,  I  am  weary  and  faint  to  follow, 

Let  me  lie  down  and  rest; 
And  hast  sought  out  shame  to  sleep  with,  mire  to  wallow 

Yea,  a  much  fouler  breast: 
And  thine  own  hast  made  prostitute,  sold  &  shamed  &  bared  it, 

Thy  bosom  which  was  mine, 
And  the  bread  of  the  word  I  gave  thee  hast  soiled,  6  shared  it 

Among  these  snakes  and  swine. 
As  a  harlot  thou  wast  handled  and  polluted, 

Thy  faith  held  light  as  foam, 
That  thou  sentest  men  thy  sons,  thy  sons  imbruted, 

To  slay  thine  elder  Rome. 


93 


Therefore,  O  harlot,  I  gave  thee  to  the  accurst  one, 

By  night  to  be  defiled, 
To  thy  second  shame,  and  a  fouler  than  the  first  one, 

That  got  thee  first  with  child. 
Yet  I  know  thee  turning  back  now  to  behold  me, 

To  bow  thee  and  make  thee  bare, 
Not  for  sin's  sake  but  penitence,  by  my  feet  to  hold  me, 

And  wipe  them  with  thine  hair. 
And  sweet  ointment  of  thy  grief  thou  hast  brought  thy  master, 

And  set  before  thy  lord, 
From  a  box  of  flawed  and  broken  alabaster, 

Thy  broken  spirit,  poured. 
And  love-offerings,  tears  and  perfumes,  hast  thou  given  me, 

To  reach  my  feet  and  touch ; 
Therefore  thy  sins,  which  are  many,  are  forgiven  thee, 

Because  thou  hast  loved  much. 

18  brumaire,  an  78. 


94 


GENESIS 


N  the  outer  world  that  was  before  this  earth, 
That  was  before  all  shape  or  space  was  born, 
Before  the  blind  first  hour  of  time  had  birth, 
Before  night  knew  the  moonlight  or  the  morn; 

Yea,  before  any  world  had  any  light, 

Or  anything  called  God  or  man  drew  breath, 

Slowly  the  strong  sides  of  the  heaving  night 

Moved,  <£r  brought  forth  the  strength  of  life  &  death. 

And  the  sad  shapeless  horror  increate 

That  was  all  things  and  one  thing,  without  fruit, 

Limit,  or  law;  where  love  was  none,  nor  hate, 
Where  no  leaf  came  to  blossom  from  no  root; 

The  very  darkness  that  time  knew  not  of, 

Nor  God  laid  hand  on,  nor  was  man  found  there, 

Ceased,  and  was  cloven  in  several  shapes;  above 
Light,  &  night  under,  &  fire,  earth,  water,  &  air. 

Sunbeams  and  starbeams,  and  all  coloured  things, 

All  forms  and  all  similitudes  began; 
And  death,  the  shadow  cast  by  life's  wide  wings, 

And  God,  the  shade  cast  by  the  soul  of  man. 

Then  between  shadow  &  substance,  night  &  light, 
Then  between  birth  &  death,  &  deeds  &  days, 

The  illimitable  embrace  and  the  amorous  fight 
That  of  itself  begets,  bears,  rears,  and  slays, 


The  immortal  war  of  mortal  things,  that  is 
Labour  and  life  and  growth  and  good  and  ill, 

The  mild  antiphonies  that  melt  and  kiss, 
The  violent  symphonies  that  meet  and  kill, 

All  nature  of  all  things  began  to  be. 

But  chiefliest  in  the  spirit  -  beast  or  man, 
Planet  of  heaven  or  blossom  of  earth  or  sea  - 

The  divine  contraries  of  life  began. 

For  the  great  labour  of  growth,  being  many,  is  one ; 

One  thing  the  white  death  &  the  ruddy  birth; 
The  invisible  air  and  the  all-beholden  sun, 

And  barren  water  and  many-childed  earth. 

And  these  things  are  made  manifest  in  men 
From  the  beginning  forth  unto  this  day: 

Time  writes  and  life  records  them,  and  again 
Death  seals  them  lest  the  record  pass  away. 

For  if  death  were  not,  then  should  growth  not  be, 
Change,  nor  the  life  of  good  nor  evil  things; 

Nor  were  there  night  at  all  nor  light  to  see, 
Nor  water  of  sweet  nor  water  of  bitter  springs. 

For  in  each  man  and  each  year  that  is  born 

Are  sown  the  twin  seeds  of  the  strong  twin  powers ; 

The  white  seed  of  the  fruitful  helpful  morn, 
The  black  seed  of  the  barren  hurtful  hours. 

And  he  that  of  the  black  seed  eateth  fruit, 
To  him  the  savour  as  honey  shall  be  sweet; 

And  he  in  whom  the  white  seed  hath  struck  root, 
He  shall  have  sorrow  &  trouble  &  tears  for  meat. 


And  him  whose  lips  the  sweet  fruit  hath  made  red 
In  the  end  men  loathe  &  make  his  name  a  rod; 

And  him  whose  mouth  on  the  unsweet  fruit  hath  fed 
In  the  end  men  follow  and  know  for  very  God. 

And  of  these  twain,  the  black  seed  and  the  white, 
All  things  come  forth,  endured  of  men  and  done; 

And  still  the  day  is  great  with  child  of  night, 
And  still  the  black  night  labours  with  the  sun. 

And  each  man  and  each  year  that  lives  on  earth 
Turns  hither  or  thither,  6-  hence  or  thence  is  fed; 

And  as  a  man  before  was  from  his  birth, 
So  shall  a  man  be  after  among  the  dead. 


97 


TO  WALT  WHITMAN  IN  AMERICA 


SEND  but  a  song  oversea  for  us, 
Heart  of  their  hearts  who  are  free, 
Heart  of  their  singer,  to  be  for  us 
More  than  our  singing  can  be; 
Ours,  in  the  tempest  at  error, 
With  no  light  but  the  twilight  of  terror; 
Send  us  a  song  oversea! 

Sweet-smelling  of  pine-leaves  and  grasses, 
And  blown  as  a  tree  through  and  through 

With  the  winds  of  the  keen  mountain-passes, 
And  tender  as  sun-smitten  dew; 

Sharp-tongued  as  the  winter  that  shakes 

The  wastes  of  your  limitless  lakes, 
Wide-eyed  as  the  sea-line's  blue. 

O  strong-winged  soul  with  prophetic 
Lips  hot  with  the  bloodbeats  of  song, 

With  tremor  of  heartstrings  magnetic, 
With  thoughts  as  thunders  in  throng, 

With  consonant  ardours  of  chords 

That  pierce  men's  souls  as  with  swords 
And  hale  them  hearing  along, 


Make  us  too  music,  to  be  with  us 

As  a  word  from  a  world's  heart  warm, 

To  sail  the  dark  as  a  sea  with  us, 
Full-sailed,  outsinging  the  storm, 

A  song  to  put  fire  in  our  ears 

Whose  burning  shall  burn  up  tears, 
Whose  sign  bid  battle  reform; 

A  note  in  the  ranks  of  a  clarion, 

A  word  in  the  wind  of  cheer, 
To  consume  as  with  lightning  the  carrion 

That  makes  time  foul  for  us  here; 
In  the  air  that  our  dead  things  infest 
A  blast  of  the  breath  of  the  west, 

Till  east  way  as  west  way  is  clear. 

Out  of  the  sun  beyond  sunset, 

From  the  evening  whence  morning  shall  be, 
With  the  rollers  in  measureless  onset, 

With  the  van  of  the  storming  sea, 
With  the  world-wide  wind,  with  the  breath 
That  breaks  ships  driven  upon  death, 

With  the  passion  of  all  things  free, 

With  the  sea-steeds  footless  and  frantic, 
White  myriads  for  death  to  bestride 

In  the  charge  of  the  ruining  Atlantic 
Where  deaths  by  regiments  ride, 

With  clouds  and  clamours  of  waters, 

With  a  long  note  shriller  than  slaughter's 
On  the  furrowless  fields  world-wide, 


99 


With  terror,  with  ardour  and  wonder, 
With  the  soul  of  the  season  that  wakes 

When  the  weight  of  a  wholeyear's  thunder 
In  the  tidestream  of  autumn  breaks, 

Let  the  flight  of  the  wide-winged  word 

Come  over,  come  in  and  be  heard, 
Take  form  and  fire  for  our  sakes. 

For  a  continent  bloodless  with  travail 
Here  toils  and  brawls  as  it  can, 

And  the  web  of  it  who  shall  unravel 
Of  all  that  peer  on  the  plan; 

Would  fain  grow  men,  but  they  grow  not, 

And  fain  be  free,  but  they  know  not 
One  name  for  freedom  and  man? 

One  name,  not  twain  for  division; 

One  thing,  not  twain,  from  the  birth; 
Spirit  and  substance  and  vision, 

Worth  more  than  worship  is  worth; 
Unbeheld,  unadored,  undivined, 
The  cause,  the  centre,  the  mind, 

The  secret  and  sense  of  the  earth. 

Here  as  a  weakling  in  irons, 

Here  as  a  weanling  in  bands, 
As  a  prey  that  the  stake-net  environs, 

Our  life  that  we  looked  for  stands; 
And  the  man-child  naked  and  dear, 
Democracy,  turns  on  us  here 

Eyes  trembling  with  tremulous  hands. 


100 


It  sees  not  what  season  shall  bring  to  it 
Sweet  fruit  of  its  bitter  desire; 

Few  voices  it  hears  jet  sing  to  it, 
Few  pulses  of  hearts  reaspire; 

Foresees  not  time,  nor  forehears 

The  noises  of  imminent  years, 

Earthquake,  and  thunder,  and  fire: 

When  crowned  &  weaponed  &  curbless 
It  shall  walk  without  helm  or  shield 

The  bare  burnt  furrows  and  herbless 
Of  war's  last  flame-stricken  field, 

Till  godlike,  equal  with  time, 

It  stand  in  the  sun  sublime, 

In  the  godhead  of  man  revealed. 

Round  your  people  and  over  them 

Light  like  raiment  is  drawn, 
Close  as  a  garment  to  cover  them 

Wrought  not  of  mail  nor  of  lawn; 
Here,  with  hope  hardly  to  wear, 
Naked  nations  and  bare 

Swim,  sink,  strike  out  for  the  dawn. 

Chains  are  here,  and  a  prison, 
Kings,  and  subjects,  and  shame; 

If  the  God  upon  you  be  arisen, 

How  should  our  songs  be  the  same  ? 

How,  in  confusion  of  change, 

How  shall  we  sing,  in  a  strange 
Land,  songs  praising  his  name  ? 


101 


God  is  buried  and  dead  to  us, 

Even  the  spirit  of  earth, 
Freedom;  so  have  they  said  to  us, 

Some  with  mocking  and  mirth, 
Some  with  heartbreak  and  tears; 
And  a  God  without  eyes,  without  ears, 

Who  shall  sing  of  him,  dead  in  the  birth  ? 

The  earth-god  Freedom,  the  lonely 
Face  lightening,  the  footprint  unshod, 

Not  as  one  man  crucified  only 

Nor  scourged  with  but  one  life's  rod; 

The  soul  that  is  substance  of  nations, 

Reincarnate  with  fresh  generations; 
The  great  god  Man,  which  is  God. 

But  in  weariest  of  years  and  obscurest 
Doth  it  live  not  at  heart  of  all  things, 

The  one  God  and  one  spirit,  a  purest 
Life,  fed  from  unstanchable  springs? 

Within  love,  within  hatred  it  is, 

And  its  seed  in  the  stripe  as  the  kiss, 
And  in  slaves  is  the  germ,  and  in  kings. 

Freedom  we  call  it,  for  holier 
Name  of  the  soul's  there  is  none; 

Surelier  it  labours,  if  slowlier, 
Than  the  metres  of  star  or  of  sun; 

Slowlier  than  life  into  breath, 

Surelier  than  time  into  death, 
It  moves  till  its  labour  be  done. 


102 


Till  the  motion  be  done  and  the  measure 
Circling  through  season  and  clime, 

Slumber  and  sorrow  and  pleasure, 
Vision  of  virtue  and  crime; 

Till  consummate  with  conquering  eyes, 

A  soul  disembodied,  it  rise 

From  the  body  transfigured  of  time. 

Till  it  rise  and  remain  and  take  station 
With  the  stars  of  the  worlds  that  rejoice ; 

Till  the  voice  of  its  heart's  exultation 
Be  as  theirs  an  invariable  voice; 

By  no  discord  of  evil  estranged, 

By  no  pause,  by  no  breach  in  it  changed, 
By  no  clash  in  the  chord  of  its  choice. 

It  is  one  with  the  world's  generations, 
With  the  spirit,  the  star,  and  the  sod; 

With  the  kingless  &  king-stricken  nations, 
With  the  cross,  &  the  chain,  6-  the  rod; 

The  most  high,  the  most  secret,  most  lonely, 

The  earth-soul  Freedom,  that  only 
Lives,  and  that  only  is  God. 


103 


CHRISTMAS  ANTIPHONES 
I.  In  Church 


HOU  whose  birth  on  earth 
Angels  sang  to  men, 
While  thy  stars  made  mirth , 
Saviour,  at  thy  birth, 
This  day  born  again; 


As  this  night  was  bright 
With  thy  cradle-ray, 

Very  light  of  light, 

Turn  the  wild  world's  night 
To  thy  perfect  day. 

God  whose  feet  made  sweet 

Those  wild  ways  they  trod, 
From  thy  fragrant  feet 
Staining  field  and  street 
With  the  blood  of  God; 

God  whose  breast  is  rest 

In  the  time  of  strife, 
In  thy  secret  breast 
Sheltering  souls  opprest 

From  the  heat  of  life; 

God  whose  eyes  are  skies 

Love-lit  as  with  spheres 
By  the  lights  that  rise 
To  thy  watching  eyes, 
Orbed  lights  of  tears; 


104 


God  whose  heart  hath  part 

In  all  grief  that  is. 
Was  not  man's  the  dart 
That  went  through  thine  heart, 

And  the  wound  not  his? 

Where  the  pale  souls  wail, 
Held  in  bonds  of  death, 
Where  all  spirits  quail. 
Came  thy  Godhead  pale 
Still  from  human  breath  - 

Pale  from  life  and  strife, 
Wan  with  manhood,  came 

Forth  of  mortal  life, 

Pierced  as  with  a  knife. 
Scarred  as  with  a  flame. 

Thou  the  Word  and  Lord 

In  all  time  and  space 
Heard,  beheld,  adored, 
With  all  ages  poured 

Forth  before  thy  face, 

Lord,  what  worth  in  earth 
Drew  thee  down  to  die? 
What  therein  was  worth, 
Lord,  thy  death  and  birth? 
What  beneath  thy  sky? 

Light  above  all  love 

By  thy  love  was  lit, 
And  brought  down  the  Dove 
Feathered  from  above 

With  the  wings  of  it. 


From  the  height  of  night, 
Was  not  thine  the  star 

That  led  forth  with  might 

By  no  worldly  light 
Wise  men  from  afar? 

Yet  the  wise  men's  eyes 

Saw  thee  not  more  clear 
Than  they  saw  thee  rise 
Who  in  shepherd's  guise 
Drew  as  poor  men  near. 

Yet  thy  poor  endure, 
And  are  with  us  yet; 

Be  thy  name  a  sure 

Refuge  for  thy  poor 

Whom  men's  eyes  forget. 

Thou  whose  ways  we  praise, 
Clear  alike  and  dark, 

Keep  our  works  and  ways 

This  and  all  thy  days 
Safe  inside  thine  ark. 

Who  shall  keep  thy  sheep, 

Lord,  and  lose  not  one? 
Who  save  one  shall  keep, 
Lest  the  shepherds  sleep? 
Who  beside  the  Son? 

From  the  grave-deep  wave, 
From  the  sword  and  flame, 
Thou,  even  thou,  shalt  save 
Souls  of  king  and  slave 
Only  by  thy  Name. 


106 


Light  not  born  with  morn 

Or  her  fires  above, 
Jesus  virgin-born, 
Held  of  men  in  scorn, 

Turn  their  scorn  to  love. 

Thou  whose  face  gives  grace 

As  the  sun's  doth  heat, 
Let  thy  sunbright  face 
Lighten  time  and  space 
Here  beneath  thy  feet. 

Bid  our  peace  increase, 
Thou  that  madest  morn; 

Bid  oppressions  cease; 

Bid  the  night  be  peace; 
Bid  the  day  be  born. 


II.  Outside  Church 

We  whose  days  and  ways 
All  the  night  makes  dark, 

What  day  shall  we  praise 

Of  these  weary  days 

That  our  life-drops  mark? 

We  whose  mind  is  blind, 

Fed  with  hope  of  nought; 
Wastes  of  worn  mankind, 
Without  heart  or  mind, 
Without  meat  or  thought; 


107 


We  with  strife  of  life 

Worn  till  all  life  cease, 
Want,  a  whetted  knife, 
Sharpening  strife  on  strife, 
How  should  we  love  peace? 

Ye  whose  meat  is  sweet 

And  your  wine- cup  red, 
Us  beneath  your  feet 
Hunger  grinds  as  wheat, 
Grinds  to  make  you  bread. 

Ye  whose  night  is  bright 
With  soft  rest  and  heat, 

Clothed  like  day  with  light, 

Us  the  naked  night 

Slays  from  street  to  street. 

Hath  your  God  no  rod, 
That  ye  tread  so  light? 

Man  on  us  as  God, 

God  as  man  hath  trod, 
Trod  us  down  with  might. 

We  that  one  by  one 
Bleed  from  cither's  rod, 

What  for  us  hath  done 

Man  beneath  the  sun, 
What  for  us  hath  God? 

We  whose  blood  is  food 

Given  your  wealth  to  feed, 
From  the  Christless  rood 
Red  with  no  God's  blood, 
But  with  man's  indeed; 


108 


How  shall  we  that  see 
Night-long  overhead 

Life,  the  flowerless  tree, 

Nailed  whereon  as  we 
Were  our  fathers  dead  - 

We  whose  ear  can  hear. 
Not  whose  tongue  can  name, 

Famine,  ignorance,  fear, 

Bleeding  tear  by  tear 
Year  by  year  of  shame, 

Till  the  dry  life  die 
Out  of  bloodless  breast, 

Out  of  beamless  eye, 

Out  of  mouths  that  cry 
Till  death  feed  with  rest  - 

How  shall  we  as  ye, 
Though  ye  bid  us,  pray? 

Though  ye  call,  can  we 

Hear  you  call,  or  see, 
Though  ye  show  us  day? 

We  whose  name  is  shame, 
We  whose  souls  walk  bare, 

Shall  we  call  the  same 

God  as  ye  by  name, 

Teach  our  lips  your  prayer? 

God,  forgive  and  give, 
For  His  sake  who  died? 

Nay,  for  ours  who  live, 

How  shall  we  forgive 
Thee,  then,  on  our  side? 


109 


We  whose  right  to  light 

Heaven's  high  noon  denies, 
Whom  the  blind  beams  smite 
That  for  you  shine  bright, 
And  but  burn  our  eyes, 

With  what  dreams  of  beams 

Shall  we  build  up  day, 
At  what  sourceless  streams 
Seek  to  drink  in  dreams 
Ere  they  pass  away? 

In  what  street  shall  meet, 
At  what  market-place, 
Your  feet  and  our  feet, 
With  one  goal  to  greet, 
Having  run  one  race? 

What  one  hope  shall  ope 

For  us  all  as  one 
One  same  horoscope, 
Where  the  soul  sees  hope 

That  outburns  the  sun? 

At  what  shrine  what  wine, 
At  what  board  what  bread, 

Salt  as  blood  or  brine, 

Shall  we  share  in  sign 
How  we  poor  were  fed? 

In  what  hour  what  power 
Shall  we  pray  for  morn, 
If  your  perfect  hour, 
When  all  day  bears  flower, 
Not  for  us  is  born? 


no 


III.  Beyond  Church 

Ye  that  weep  in  sleep, 
Souls  and  bodies  bound, 

Ye  that  all  night  keep 

Watch  for  change,  and  weep 
That  no  change  is  found; 

Ye  that  cry  and  die, 
And  the  world  goes  on 

Without  ear  or  eye, 

And  the  days  go  by 
Till  all  days  are  gone; 

Man  shall  do  for  you, 

Men  the  sons  of  man, 
What  no  God  would  do 
That  they  sought  unto 

While  the  blind  years  ran. 

Brotherhood  of  good, 
Equal  laws  and  rights, 

Freedom,  whose  sweet  food 

Feeds  the  multitude 

All  their  days  and  nights, 

With  the  bread  full-fed 

Of  her  body  blest 
And  the  soul's  wine  shed 
From  her  table  spread 

Where  the  world  is  guest, 


in 


Mingling  me  and  thee, 

When  like  light  of  eyes 
Flashed  through  thee  and  me 
Truth  shall  make  us  free, 
Liberty  make  wise; 

These  are  they  whom  day 
Follows  and  gives  light 

Whence  they  see  to  slay 

Night,  and  burn  away 
All  the  seed  of  night. 

What  of  thine  and  mine, 

What  of  want  and  wealth, 
When  one  faith  is  wine 
For  my  heart  and  thine 
And  one  draught  is  health? 

For  no  sect  elect 

Is  the  soul's  wine  poured 
And  her  table  decked; 
Whom  should  man  reject 

From  man's  common  board? 

Gods  refuse  and  choose, 
Grudge  and  sell  and  spare; 

None  shall  man  refuse, 

None  of  all  men  lose, 
None  leave  out  of  care. 

No  man's  might  of  sight 
Knows  that  hour  before; 

No  man's  hand  hath  might 

To  put  back  that  light 
For  one  hour  the  more. 


112 


Not  though  all  men  call, 
Kneeling  with  void  hands, 

Shall  they  see  light  fall 

Till  it  come  for  all 

Tribes  of  men  and  lands. 

No  desire  brings  fire 

Down  from  heaven  by  prayer, 
Though  man's  vain  desire 
Hang  faith's  wind-struck  lyre 

Out  in  tuneless  air. 

One  hath  breath  and  saith 
What  the  tune  shall  be  - 

Time,  who  puts  his  breath 

Into  life  and  death, 
Into  earth  and  sea. 

To  and  fro  years  flow, 
Fill  their  tides  and  ebb, 

As  his  fingers  go 

Weaving  to  and  fro 
One  unfinished  web. 

All  the  range  of  change 
Hath  its  bounds  therein, 

All  the  lives  that  range 

All  the  byways  strange 
Named  of  death  or  sin. 

Star  from  far  to  star 

Speaks,  &  white  moons  wake, 
Watchful  from  afar 
What  the  night's  ways  are 

For  the  morning's  sake. 


113 


Many  names  and  flames 
Pass  and  flash  and  fall, 
Night- begotten  names, 
And  the  night  reclaims, 
As  she  bare  them,  all. 

But  the  sun  is  one, 

And  the  sun's  name  Right; 
And  when  light  is  none 
Saving  of  the  sun, 

All  men  shall  have  light. 

All  shall  see  and  be 

Parcel  of  the  morn; 
Ay,  though  blind  were  we, 
None  shall  choose  but  see 

When  that  day  is  born. 


114 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  MESSAGE 
To  Joseph  Mazzini 

'Send  the  stars  light,  but  send  not  love  to  me." 

Shelley 

• 

i 

QJT  of  the  dawning  heavens  that  hear 
Young  wings  &  feet  of  the  new  year 
Move  through  their  twilight,  &  shed  round 
Soft  showers  of  sound, 
Soothing  the  season  with  sweet  rain, 
If  greeting  come  to  make  me  fain, 
What  is  it  I  can  send  again? 

•  • 

11 

I  know  not  if  the  year  shall  send 

Tidings  to  usward  as  a  friend, 

And  salutation,  and  such  things 

Bear  on  his  wings 

As  the  soul  turns  and  thirsts  unto 

With  hungering  eyes  and  lips  that  sue 

For  that  sweet  food  which  makes  all  new. 

•  •  • 

111 

I  know  not  if  his  light  shall  be 
Darkness,  or  else  light  verily: 
I  know  but  that  it  will  not  part 
Heart's  faith  from  heart, 
Truth  from  the  trust  in  truth,  nor  hope 
From  sight  of  days  unsealed  that  ope 
Beyond  one  poor  year's  horoscope. 


iv 

That  faith  in  love  which  love's  self  gives, 
O  master  of  my  spirit,  lives, 
Having  in  presence  unremoved 
Thine  head  beloved, 
The  shadow  of  thee,  the  semitone 
Of  thy  voice  heard  at  heart  and  known, 
The  light  of  thee  not  set  nor  flown. 

v 

Seas,  lands,  and  hours,  can  these  divide 
Love  from  love's  service,  side  from  side, 
Though  no  sound  pass  nor  breath  be  heard 
Of  one  good  word? 
To  send  back  words  of  trust  to  thee 
Were  to  send  wings  to  love,  when  he 
With  his  own  strong  wings  covers  me. 

vi 

Who  shall  teach  singing  to  the  spheres, 
Or  motion  to  the  flight  of  years? 
Let  soul  with  soul  keep  hand  in  hand 
And  understand, 
As  in  one  same  abiding-place 
We  keep  one  watch  for  one  same  face 
To  rise  in  some  short  sacred  space. 

vii 

And  all  space  midway  is  but  nought 
To  keep  true  heart  from  faithful  thought, 
As  under  twilight  stars  we  wait 
By  Time's  shut  gate 
Till  the  slow  soundless  hinges  turn, 
And  through  the  depth  of  years  that  yearn 
The  face  of  the  Republic  burn. 

1870 


116 


MATER  DOLOROSA 

"Citoyen,  luidit  Enjolras,  ma  mere,  c'est  laRepublique." 

LesMiseVables 

WHO  is  this  that  sits  by  the  way,  by  the  wild  wayside, 
L  a  rent  stained  raiment,  the  robe  of  a  cast-off  bride, 
i  the  dust,  in  the  rainfall  sitting,  with  soiled  feet  bare, 
/ith  the  night  for  a  garment  upon  her,  with  torn  wet  hair? 
She  is  fairer  efface  than  the  daughters  of  men,  and  her  eyes, 
Worn  through  with  her  tears,  are  deep  as  the  depth  of  skies. 

This  is  she  for  whose  sake  being  fallen,  for  whose  abject  sake, 
Earth  groans  in  the  blackness  of  darkness,  and  men's  hearts  break. 
This  is  she  for  whose  love,  having  seen  her,  the  men  that  were 
Poured  life  out  as  water,  and  shed  their  souls  upon  air. 
This  is  she  for  whose  glory  their  years  were  counted  as  foam; 
Whose  face  was  a  light  upon  Greece,  was  a  fire  upon  Rome. 

Is  it  now  not  surely  a  vain  thing,  a  foolish  and  vain, 

To  sit  down  by  her,  mourn  to  her,  serve  her,  partake  in  the  pain? 

She  is  grey  with  the  dust  of  time  on  his  manifold  ways, 

Where  her  faint  feet  stumble  and  falter  through  yearlong  days. 

Shall  she  help  us  at  all,  O  fools,  give  fruit  or  give  fame, 

Who  herself  is  a  name  despised,  a  rejected  name? 


117 


We  have  not  served  her  for  guerdon.  If  any  do  so, 

That  his  mouth  may  be  sweet  with  such  honey ,  we  care  not  to  know. 

We  have  drunk  from  a  wine-unsweetened,  a  perilous  cup, 

A  draught  very  bitter.  The  kings  of  the  earth  stood  up, 

And  the  rulers  took  counsel  together,  to  smite  her  and  slay; 

And  the  blood  of  her  wounds  is  given  us  to  drink  to-day. 

Can  these  bones  live?  or  the  leaves  that  are  dead  leaves  bud? 
Or  the  dead  blood  drawn  from  her  veins  be  in  your  veins  blood? 
Will  ye  gather  up  water  again  that  was  drawn  and  shed? 
In  the  blood  is  the  life  of  the  veins,  and  her  veins  are  dead. 
For  the  lives  that  are  over  are  over,  and  past  things  past; 
She  had  her  day,  and  it  is  not;  was  first,  and  is  last. 

Is  it  nothing  unto  you  then,  all  ye  that  pass  by, 

If  her  breath  be  left  in  her  lips,  if  she  live  now  or  die? 

Behold  now,  O  people,  and  say  if  she  be  not  fair, 

Whom  your  fathers  followed  to  find  her,  with  praise  and  prayer, 

And  rejoiced,  having  found  her,  though  roof  they  had  nonenorbread; 

But  ye  care  not;  what  is  it  to  you  if  her  day  be  dead? 

It  was  well  with  our  fathers;  their  sound  was  in  all  men's  lands; 
There  was  fire  in  their  hearts,  6-  the  hunger  of  fight  in  their  hands. 
Naked  and  strong  they  went  forth  in  her  strength  like  flame, 
For  her  love's  and  her  name's  sake  of  old,  her  republican  name. 
But  their  children,  by  kings  made  quiet,  by  priests  made  wise, 
Love  better  the  heat  of  their  hearths  than  the  light  of  her  eyes. 

Are  they  children  of  these  thy  children  indeed,  who  have  sold, 

O  golden  goddess,  the  light  of  thy  face  for  gold? 

Are  they  sons  indeed  of  the  sons  of  thy  dayspring  of  hope, 

Whose  lives  are  in  fief  of  an  emperor,  whose  souls  of  a  Pope? 

Hide  then  thine  head,  O  beloved;  thy  time  is  done; 

Thy  kingdom  is  broken  in  heaven,  and  blind  thy  sun. 


118 


What  sleep  is  upon  you,  to  dream  she  indeed  shall  rise, 
When  the  hopes  are  dead  in  her  heart  as  the  tears  in  her  eyes? 
If  ye  sing  of  her  dead,  will  she  stir?  if  ye  weep  for  her,  weep? 
Come  away  now,  leave  her;  what  hath  she  to  do  but  sleep? 
But  ye  that  mourn  are  alive,  and  have  years  to  be; 
And  life  is  good,  and  the  world  is  wiser  than  we. 

Yea,  wise  is  the  world  and  mighty,  with  years  to  give, 
And  years  to  promise;  but  how  long  now  shall  it  live? 
And  foolish  and  poor  is  faith,  and  her  ways  are  bare, 
Till  she  find  the  way  of  the  sun,  and  the  morning  air. 
In  that  hour  shall  this  dead  face  shine  as  the  face  of  the  sun, 
And  the  soul  of  man  and  her  soul  and  the  world's  be  one. 


119 


MATER  TRIUMPHALIS 


OTHER  of  man's  time-travelling  generations, 
Breath  of  his  nostrils,  heartblood  of  his  heart, 
God  above  all  Gods  worshipped  of  all  nations, 
Light  above  light,  law  beyond  law,  thou  art. 

Thy  face  is  as  a  sword  smiting  in  sunder 

Shadows  and  chains  and  dreams  and  iron  things; 

The  sea  is  dumb  before  thy  face,  the  thunder 
Silent,  the  skies  are  narrower  than  thy  wings. 

Angels  and  Gods,  spirit  and  sense,  thou  takest 

In  thy  right  hand  as  drops  of  dust  or  dew; 
The  temples  and  the  towers  of  time  thou  breakest, 

His  thoughts  and  words  and  works,  to  make  them  new. 

All  we  have  wandered  from  thy  ways,  have  hidden 
Eyes  from  thy  glory  and  ears  from  calls  they  heard; 

Called  of  thy  trumpets  vainly,  called  and  chidden, 
Scourged  of  thy  speech  and  wounded  of  thy  word. 

We  have  known  thee  &  have  not  known  thee ;  stood  beside  thee, 
Felt  thy  lips  breathe,  set  foot  where  thy  feet  trod, 

Loved  and  renounced  and  worshipped  and  denied  thee, 
As  though  thou  wert  but  as  another  God. 

"One  hour  for  sleep,"  we  said,  "and  yet  one  other; 

All  day  we  served  her,  and  who  shall  serve  by  night?" 
Not  knowing  of  thee,  thy  face  not  knowing,  O  mother, 

O  light  wherethrough  the  darkness  is  as  light. 


120 


Men  that  forsook  thee  hast  thou  not  forsaken, 
Races  of  men  that  knew  not  hast  thou  known; 

Nations  that  slept  thou  hast  doubted  not  to  waken, 
Worshippers  of  strange  Gods  to  make  thine  own. 

All  old  grey  histories  hiding  thy  clear  features, 
O  secret  spirit  and  sovereign,  all  men's  tales, 

Creeds  woven  of  men  thy  children  and  thy  creatures, 
They  have  woven  for  vestures  of  thee  and  for  veils. 

Thine  hands,  without  election  or  exemption, 
Feed  all  men  fainting  from  false  peace  or  strife, 

O  thou,  the  resurrection  and  redemption, 
The  godhead  and  the  manhood  and  the  life. 

Thy  wings  shadow  the  waters;  thine  eyes  lighten 

The  horror  of  the  hollows  of  the  night; 
The  depths  of  the  earth  and  the  dark  places  brighten 

Under  thy  feet,  whiter  than  fire  is  white. 

Death  is  subdued  to  thee,  and  hell's  bands  broken; 

Where  thou  art  only  is  heaven;  who  hears  not  thee, 
Time  shall  not  hear  him;  when  men's  names  are  spoken, 

A  nameless  sign  of  death  shall  his  name  be. 

Deathless  shall  be  the  death,  the  name  be  nameless; 

Sterile  of  stars  his  twilight  time  of  breath; 
With  fire  of  hell  shall  shame  consume  him  shameless, 

And  dying,  all  the  night  darken  his  death. 

The  years  are  as  thy  garments,  the  world's  ages 
As  sandals  bound  and  loosed  from  thy  swift  feet; 

Time  serves  before  thee,  as  one  that  hath  for  wages 
Praise  or  shame  only,  bitter  words  or  sweet. 


121 


Thou  sayest  "Well  done,"  &  all  a  century  kindles; 

Again  thou  sayest "  Depart  from  sight  of  me," 
And  all  the  light  of  face  of  all  men  dwindles, 

And  the  age  is  as  the  broken  glass  of  thee. 

The  night  is  as  a  seal  set  on  men's  faces, 
On  faces  fallen  of  men  that  take  no  light, 

Nor  give  light  in  the  deeps  of  the  dark  places, 
Blind  things,  incorporate  with  the  body  of  night. 

Their  souls  are  serpents  winterbound  and  frozen, 
Their  shame  is  as  a  tame  beast,  at  their  feet 

Couched;  their  cold  lips  deride  thee  &  thy  chosen, 
Their  lying  lips  made  grey  with  dust  for  meat. 

Then  when  their  time  is  full  and  days  run  over, 
The  splendour  of  thy  sudden  brow  made  bare 

Darkens  the  morning;  thy  bared  hands  uncover 
The  veils  of  light  and  night  and  the  awful  air. 

And  the  world  naked  as  a  new-born  maiden 

Stands  virginal  and  splendid  as  at  birth, 
With  all  thine  heaven  of  all  its  light  unladen, 

Of  all  its  love  unburdened  all  thine  earth. 

For  the  utter  earth  and  the  utter  air  of  heaven 

And  the  extreme  depth  is  thine  &  the  extreme  height; 

Shadows  of  things  and  veils  of  ages  riven 
Are  as  men's  kings  unkingdomed  in  thy  sight. 

Through  the  iron  years,  the  centuries  brazen-gated, 
By  the  ages'  barred  impenetrable  doors, 

From  the  evening  to  the  morning  have  we  waited, 
Should  thy  foot  haply  sound  on  the  awful  floors. 


122 


The  floors  untrodden  of  the  sun's  feet  glimmer, 
The  star-unstricken  pavements  of  the  night; 

Do  the  lights  burn  inside?  the  lights  wax  dimmer 
On  festal  faces  withering  out  of  sight. 

The  crowned  heads  lose  the  light  on  them;  it  may  be 
Dawn  is  at  hand  to  smite  the  loud  feast  dumb; 

To  blind  the  torch-lit  centuries  till  the  day  be, 
The  feasting  kingdoms  till  thy  kingdom  come. 

Shall  it  not  come?  deny  they  or  dissemble, 

Is  it  not  even  as  lightning  from  on  high 
Now?  and  though  many  a  soul  close  eyes  and  tremble, 

How  should  they  tremble  at  all  who  love  thee  as  I? 

I  am  thine  harp  between  thine  hands,  O  mother! 

All  my  strong  chords  are  strained  with  love  of  thee. 
We  grapple  in  love  and  wrestle,  as  each  with  other 

Wrestle  the  wind  and  the  unreluctant  sea. 

I  am  no  courtier  of  thee  sober-suited, 

Who  loves  a  little  for  a  little  pay. 
Me  not  thy  winds  and  storms  nor  thrones  disrooted 

Nor  molten  crowns  nor  thine  own  sins  dismay. 

Sinned  hast  thou  sometime,  therefore  art  thou  sinless; 

Stained  hast  thou  been,  who  art  therefore  without  stain: 
Even  as  man's  soul  is  kin  to  thee,  but  kinless 

Thou,  in  whose  womb  Time  sows  the  all-various  grain. 

I  do  not  bid  thee  spare  me,  O  dreadful  mother! 

I  pray  thee  that  thou  spare  not,  of  thy  grace. 
How  were  it  with  me  then,  if  ever  another 

Should  come  to  stand  before  thee  in  this  my  place? 


123 


I  am  the  trumpet  at  thy  lips,  thy  clarion 
Full  of  thy  cry,  sonorous  with  thy  breath; 

The  graves  of  souls  born  worms  &  creeds  grown  carrion 
Thy  blast  of  judgment  fills  with  fires  of  death. 

Thou  art  the  player  whose  organ-keys  are  thunders, 
And  I  beneath  thy  foot  the  pedal  prest; 

Thou  art  the  ray  whereat  the  rent  night  sunders, 
And  I  the  cloudlet  borne  upon  thy  breast. 

I  shall  burn  up  before  thee,  pass  and  perish, 

As  haze  in  sunrise  on  the  red  sea-line; 
But  thou  from  dawn  to  sunsetting  shalt  cherish 

The  thoughts  that  led  and  souls  that  lighted  mine. 

Reared  between  night  &  noon  and  truth  6V  error, 
Each  twilight-travelling  bird  that  trills  and  screams 

Sickens  at  midday,  nor  can  face  for  terror 
The  imperious  heaven's  inevitable  extremes. 

I  have  no  spirit  of  skill  with  equal  fingers 
At  sign  to  sharpen  or  to  slacken  strings; 

I  keep  no  time  of  song  with  gold-perched  singers 
And  chirp  of  linnets  on  the  wrists  of  kings. 

I  am  thy  storm-thrush  of  the  days  that  darken, 
Thy  petrel  in  the  foam  that  bears  thy  bark 

To  port  through  night  and  tempest;  if  thou  hearken. 
My  voice  is  in  thy  heaven  before  the  lark. 

My  song  is  in  the  mist  that  hides  thy  morning, 

My  cry  is  up  before  the  day  for  thee; 
I  have  heard  thee  and  beheld  thee  and  give  warning, 

Before  thy  wheels  divide  the  sky  and  sea. 


124 


Birds  shall  wake  with  thee  voiced  &  feathered  fairer, 

To  see  in  summer  what  I  see  in  spring; 
I  have  eyes  6-  heart  to  endure  thee,  O  thunder-bearer, 

And  they  shall  be  who  shall  have  tongues  to  sing. 

I  have  love  at  least,  and  have  not  fear,  and  part  not 
From  thine  unnavigable  and  wingless  way; 

Thou  tarriest,  and  I  have  not  said  thou  art  not, 
Nor  all  thy  night  long  have  denied  thy  day. 

Darkness  to  daylight  shall  lift  up  thy  paean, 
Hill  to  hill  thunder,  vale  cry  back  to  vale, 

With  wind-notes  as  of  eagles  ^Eschylean, 
And  Sappho  singing  in  the  nightingale. 

Sung  to  by  mighty  sons  of  dawn  and  daughters, 
Of  this  night's  songs  thine  ear  shall  keep  but  one; 

That  supreme  song  which  shook  the  channelled  waters, 
And  called  thee  skyward  as  God  calls  the  sun. 

Come,  though  all  heaven  again  be  fire  above  thee; 

Though  death  before  thee  come  to  clear  thy  sky; 
Let  us  but  see  in  his  thy  face  who  love  thee; 

Yea,  though  thou  slay  us,  arise  and  let  us  die. 


125 


A  MARCHING  SONG 


"^T  T*"  E  mix  from  many  lands, 

%    /%    /  We  march  for  very  far; 
\f    \f  In  hearts  and  lips  and  hands 

Our  staffs  and  weapons  are; 
The  light  we  walk  in  darkens  sun  and  moon  and  star. 

It  doth  not  flame  and  wane 

With  years  and  spheres  that  roll. 
Storm  cannot  shake  nor  stain 

The  strength  that  makes  it  whole, 
The  fire  that  moulds  and  moves  it  of  the  sovereign  soul. 

We  are  they  that  have  to  cope 

With  time  till  time  retire; 
We  live  on  hopeless  hope, 

We  feed  on  tears  and  fire ; 
Time,  foot  by  foot,  gives  back  before  our  sheer  desire. 

From  the  edge  of  harsh  derision, 

From  discord  and  defeat, 
From  doubt  and  lame  division, 
We  pluck  the  fruit  and  eat; 
And  the  mouth  finds  it  bitter,  and  the  spirit  sweet. 

We  strive  with  time  at  wrestling 

Till  time  be  on  our  side 
And  hope,  our  plumeless  nestling, 

A  full-fledged  eaglet  ride 
Down  the  loud  length  of  storm  its  windward  wings  divide. 


126 


We  are  girt  with  our  belief, 

Clothed  with  our  will  and  crowned; 
Hope,  fear,  delight,  and  grief, 
Before  our  will  give  ground; 
Their  calls  are  in  our  ears  as  shadows  of  dead  sound. 

All  but  the  heart  forsakes  us, 

All  fails  us  but  the  will; 
Keen  treason  tracks  and  takes  us 

In  pits  for  blood  to  fill, 
Friend  falls  from  friend,  and  faith  for  faith  lays  wait  to  kill. 

Out  under  moon  and  stars 

And  shafts  of  the  urgent  sun 
Whose  face  on  prison-bars 

And  mountain-heads  is  one, 
Our  march  is  everlasting  till  time's  march  be  done. 

Whither  we  know,  and  whence, 

And  dare  not  care  wherethrough. 
Desires  that  urge  the  sense, 

Fears  changing  old  with  new, 
Perils  and  pains  beset  the  ways  we  press  into; 

Earth  gives  us  thorns  to  tread, 
And  all  her  thorns  are  trod; 
Through  lands  burnt  black  and  red 

We  pass  with  feet  unshod; 
Whence  we  would  be  man  shall  not  keep  us,  nor  man's  God. 

Through  the  great  desert  beasts 

Howl  at  our  backs  by  night, 
And  thunder-forging  priests 

Blow  their  dead  bale-fires  bright, 
And  on  their  broken  anvils  beat  out  bolts  for  fight. 


127 


Inside  their  sacred  smithies 

Though  hot  the  hammer  rings, 
Their  steel  links  snap  like  withies, 
Their  chains  like  twisted  strings, 
Their  surest  fetters  are  as  plighted  words  of  kings. 

O  nations  undivided, 

O  single  people  and  free, 
We  dreamers,  we  derided, 

We  mad  blind  men  that  see, 
We  bear  you  witness  ere  ye  come  that  ye  shall  be. 

Ye  sitting  among  tombs, 

Ye  standing  round  the  gate, 
Whom  fire-mouthed  war  consumes, 

Or  cold-lipped  peace  bids  wait, 
All  tombs  and  bars  shall  open,  every  grave  and  grate. 

The  locks  shall  burst  in  sunder, 

The  hinges  shrieking  spin, 
When  time,  whose  hand  is  thunder, 

Lays  hand  upon  the  pin, 
And  shoots  the  bolts  reluctant,  bidding  all  men  in. 

These  eyeless  times  and  earless, 

Shall  these  not  see  and  hear, 
And  all  their  hearts  burn  fearless 

That  were  afrost  for  fear? 
Is  day  not  hard  upon  us,  yea,  not  our  day  near? 

France!  from  its  grey  dejection 

Make  manifest  the  red 
Tempestuous  resurrection 

Of  thy  most  sacred  head! 
Break  thou  the  covering  cerecloths;  rise  up  from  the  dead. 


128 


And  thou,  whom  sea-walls  sever 

From  lands  unwalled  with  seas, 
Wilt  thou  endure  for  ever, 

O  Milton's  England,  these? 
Thou  that  wast  his  Republic,  wilt  thou  clasp  their  knees? 

These  royalties  rust-eaten, 

These  worm-corroded  lies, 
That  keep  thine  head  storm-beaten 

And  sunlike  strength  of  eyes 
From  the  open  heaven  and  air  of  intercepted  skies; 

These  princelings  with  gauze  winglets 

That  buzz  in  the  air  unfurled, 
These  summer-swarming  kinglets, 

These  thin  worms  crowned  and  curled, 
That  bask  and  blink  and  warm  themselves  about  the  world ; 

These  fanged  meridian  vermin, 

Shrill  gnats  that  crowd  the  dusk, 
Night-moths  whose  nestling  ermine 

Smells  foul  of  mould  and  musk, 
Blind  flesh-flies  hatched  by  dark  &  hampered  in  their  husk; 

These  honours  without  honour, 
These  ghost-like  gods  of  gold, 
This  earth  that  wears  upon  her 
To  keep  her  heart  from  cold 
No  memory  more  of  men  that  brought  it  fire  of  old; 

These  limbs,  supine,  unbuckled, 

In  rottenness  of  rest, 
These  sleepy  lips  blood-suckled 

And  satiate  of  thy  breast, 
These  dull  wide  mouths  that  drain  thee  dry  6-  call  thee  blest; 


129 


These  masters  of  thee  mindless 

That  wear  thee  out  of  mind, 
These  children  of  thee  kindless 

That  use  thee  out  of  kind, 
Whose  hands  strew  gold  before  thee  and  contempt  behind; 

Who  have  turned  thy  name  to  laughter, 

Thy  sea-like  sounded  name 
That  now  none  hearkens  after 

For  faith  in  its  free  fame, 
Who  have  robbed  thee  of  thy  trust  and  given  thee  of  their  shame; 

These  hours  that  mock  each  other, 

These  years  that  kill  and  die, 
Are  these  thy  gains,  our  mother, 

For  all  thy  gains  thrown  by? 
Is  this  that  end  whose  promise  made  thine  heart  so  high? 

With  empire  and  with  treason 

The  first  right  hand  made  fast, 
But  in  man's  nobler  season 

To  put  forth  help  the  last, 
Love  turns  from  thee,  and  memory  disavows  thy  past. 

Lest  thine  own  sea  disclaim  thee, 

Lest  thine  own  sons  despise, 
Lest  lips  shoot  out  that  name  thee 

And  seeing  thee  men  shut  eyes, 
Take  thought  with  all  thy  people,  turn  thine  head  and  rise. 

• 

Turn  thee,  lift  up  thy  face; 

What  ails  thee  to  be  dead? 
Ask  of  thyself  for  grace, 

Seek  of  thyself  for  bread, 
And  who  shall  starve  or  shame  thee,  blind  or  bruise  thine  head? 


130 


The  same  sun  in  thy  sight, 

The  same  sea  in  thine  ears, 
That  saw  thine  hour  at  height, 

That  sang  thy  song  of  years, 
Behold  and  hearken  for  thee,  knowing  thy  hopes  &  fears. 

O  people,  O  perfect  nation, 

O  England  that  shall  be, 
How  long  till  thou  take  station? 

How  long  till  thralls  live  free? 
How  long  till  all  thy  soul  be  one  with  all  thy  sea? 

Ye  that  from  south  to  north, 
Ye  that  from  east  to  west, 
Stretch  hands  of  longing  forth 

And  keep  your  eyes  from  rest, 
Lo,  when  ye  will,  we  bring  you  gifts  of  what  is  best. 

From  the  awful  northland  pines 
That  skirt  their  wan  dim  seas 
To  the  ardent  Apennines 

And  sun-struck  Pyrenees, 
One  frost  on  all  their  frondage  bites  the  blossoming  trees. 

The  leaves  look  up  for  light, 

For  heat  of  helpful  air; 
The  trees  of  oldest  height 

And  thin  storm-shaken  hair 
Seek  with  gaunt  hands  up  heavenward  if  the  sun  be  there. 

The  woods  where  souls  walk  lonely, 

The  forests  girt  with  night, 
Desire  the  day-star  only 

And  firstlings  of  the  light 
Not  seen  of  slaves  nor  shining  in  their  masters'  sight. 


131 


We  have  the  morning  star, 

O  foolish  people,  O  kings! 
With  us  the  day-springs  are, 

Even  all  the  fresh  day-springs; 
For  us,  and  with  us,  all  the  multitudes  of  things. 

O  sorrowing  hearts  of  slaves, 

We  heard  you  beat  from  far! 
We  bring  the  light  that  saves, 

We  bring  the  morning  star; 
Freedom's  good  things  we  bring  you,  whence  all  good  things  are. 

With  us  the  winds  and  fountains 

And  lightnings  live  in  tune; 
The  morning-coloured  mountains 

That  burn  into  the  noon, 
The  mist's  mild  veil  on  valleys  muffled  from  the  moon: 

The  thunder-darkened  highlands 

And  lowlands  hot  with  fruit, 
Sea-bays  and  shoals  and  islands, 

And  cliffs  that  foil  man's  foot, 
And  all  the  flower  of  large-limbed  life  and  all  the  root: 

The  clangour  of  sea-eagles 

That  teach  the  morning  mirth 
With  baying  of  heaven's  beagles 

That  seek  their  prey  on  earth, 
By  sounding  strait  and  channel,  gulf  and  reach  and  firth. 

With  us  the  fields  and  rivers, 

The  grass  that  summer  thrills, 
The  haze  where  morning  quivers, 

The  peace  at  heart  of  hills, 
The  sense  that  kindles  nature,  and  the  soul  that  fills. 


132 


With  us  all  natural  sights, 

All  notes  of  natural  scale; 
With  us  the  starry  lights; 

With  us  the  nightingale; 
With  us  the  heart  and  secret  of  the  worldly  tale. 

The  strife  of  things  and  beauty, 

The  fire  and  light  adored, 
Truth,  and  life-lightening  duty, 

Love  without  crown  or  sword, 
That  by  his  might  and  godhead  makes  man  god  and  lord. 

These  have  we,  these  are  ours, 

That  no  priests  give  nor  kings; 
The  honey  of  all  these  flowers, 

The  heart  of  all  these  springs; 
Ours,  for  where  freedom  lives  not,  there  live  no  good  things. 

Rise,  ere  the  dawn  be  risen; 

Come,  and  be  all  souls  fed; 
From  field  and  street  and  prison 
Come,  for  the  feast  is  spread; 
Live,  for  the  truth  is  living;  wake,  for  night  is  dead. 


133 


SIENA 


INSIDE  this  northern  summer's  fold 
The  fields  are  full  of  naked  gold, 
Broadcast  from  heaven  on  lands  it  loves; 
The  green  veiled  air  is  full  of  doves; 
Soft  leaves  that  sift  the  sunbeams  let 
Light  on  the  small  warm  grasses  wet 
Fall  in  short  broken  kisses  sweet, 
And  break  again  like  waves  that  beat 
Round  the  sun's  feet. 

But  I,  for  all  this  English  mirth 
Of  golden-shod  and  dancing  days, 

And  the  old  green-girt  sweet-hearted  earth, 
Desire  what  here  no  spells  can  raise. 

Far  hence,  with  holier  heavens  above, 

The  lovely  city  of  my  love 

Bathes  deep  in  the  sun-satiate  air 

That  flows  round  no  fair  thing  more  fair 

Her  beauty  bare. 

There  the  utter  sky  is  holier,  there 
More  pure  the  intense  white  height  of  air, 
More  clear  men's  eyes  that  mine  would  meet, 
And  the  sweet  springs  of  things  more  sweet. 
There  for  this  one  warm  note  of  doves 
A  clamour  of  a  thousand  loves 
Storms  the  night's  ear,  the  day's  assails, 
From  the  tempestuous  nightingales, 
And  fills,  and  fails. 


134 


O  gracious  city  well-beloved, 

Italian,  and  a  maiden  crowned, 
Siena,  my  feet  are  no  more  moved 

Toward  thy  strange-shapen  mountain-bound: 
But  my  heart  in  me  turns  and  moves, 
O  lady  loveliest  of  my  loves, 
Toward  thee,  to  lie  before  thy  feet 
And  gaze  from  thy  fair  fountain-seat 
Up  the  sheer  street; 

And  the  house  midway  hanging  see 
That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily, 
Felt  on  its  floors  her  sweet  feet  move, 
And  the  live  light  of  fiery  love 
Burn  from  her  beautiful  strange  face, 
As  in  the  sanguine  sacred  place 
Where  in  pure  hands  she  took  the  head 
Severed,  and  with  pure  lips  still  red 
Kissed  the  lips  dead. 

For  years  through,  sweetest  of  the  saints, 
In  quiet  without  cease  she  wrought, 

Till  cries  of  men  and  fierce  complaints 

From  outward  moved  her  maiden  thought; 

And  prayers  she  heard  &  sighs  toward  France, 

"God,  send  us  back  deliverance, 

Send  back  thy  servant,  lest  we  die!" 

With  an  exceeding  bitter  cry 

They  smote  the  sky. 

Then  in  her  sacred  saving  hands 
She  took  the  sorrows  of  the  lands, 
With  maiden  palms  she  lifted  up 
The  sick  time's  blood-embittered  cup, 
And  in  her  virgin  garment  furled 
The  faint  limbs  of  a  wounded  world. 
Clothed  with  calm  love  and  clear  desire, 
She  went  forth  in  her  soul's  attire, 
A  missive  fire. 


Across  the  might  of  men  that  strove 
It  shone,  and  over  heads  of  kings; 

And  molten  in  red  flames  of  love 

Were  swords  and  many  monstrous  things; 

And  shields  were  lowered,  &  snapt  were  spears, 

And  sweeter- tuned  the  clamorous  years; 

And  faith  came  back,  and  peace,  that  were 

Fled;  for  she  bade,  saying,  "Thou,  God's  heir, 

Hast  thou  no  care? 

"  Lo,  men  lay  waste  thine  heritage 
Still,  and  much  heathen  people  rage 
Against  thee,  and  devise  vain  things. 
What  comfort  in  the  face  of  kings, 
What  counsel  is  there?  Turn  thine  eyes 
And  thine  heart  from  them  in  like  wise; 
Turn  thee  unto  thine  holy  place 
To  help  us  that  of  God  for  grace 
Require  thy  face. 

"  For  who  shall  hear  us  if  not  thou 

In  a  strange  land?  what  doest  thou  there? 

Thy  sheep  are  spoiled,  &  the  ploughers  plough 
Upon  us;  why  hast  thou  no  care 

For  all  this,  and  beyond  strange  hills 

Liest  unregardful  what  snow  chills 

Thy  foldless  flock,  or  what  rains  beat? 

Lo,  in  thine  ears,  before  thy  feet, 

Thy  lost  sheep  bleat. 

"And  strange  men  feed  on  faultless  lives, 
And  there  is  blood,  and  men  put  knives, 
Shepherd,  unto  the  young  lamb's  throat; 
And  one  hath  eaten,  and  one  smote, 
And  one  had  hunger  and  is  fed 
Full  of  the  flesh  of  these,  and  red 
With  blood  of  these  as  who  drinks  wine. 
And  God  knoweth,  who  hath  sent  thee  a  sign, 
If  these  were  thine.' 


136 


But  the  Pope's  heart  within  him  burned, 
So  that  he  rose  up,  seeing  the  sign, 

And  came  among  them;  but  she  turned 
Back  to  her  daily  way  divine, 

And  fed  her  faith  with  silent  things, 

And  lived  her  life  with  curbed  white  wings, 

And  mixed  herself  with  heaven  and  died: 

And  now  on  the  sheer  city-side 

Smiles  like  a  bride. 

You  see  her  in  the  fresh  clear  gloom, 
Where  walls  shut  out  the  flame  and  bloom 
Of  full-breathed  summer,  and  the  roof 
Keeps  the  keen  ardent  air  aloof 
And  sweet  weight  of  the  violent  sky: 
There  bodily  beheld  on  high, 
She  seems  as  one  hearing  in  tune 
Heaven  within  heaven,  at  heaven's  full  noon, 
In  sacred  swoon: 

A  solemn  swoon  of  sense  that  aches 
With  imminent  blind  heat  of  heaven, 

While  all  the  wide-eyed  spirit  wakes, 
Vigilant  of  the  supreme  Seven, 

Whose  choral  flames  in  God's  sight  move, 

Made  unendurable  with  love, 

That  without  wind  or  blast  of  breath 

Compels  all  things  through  life  and  death 

Whither  God  saith. 

There  on  the  dim  side-chapel  wall 
Thy  mighty  touch  memorial, 
Razzi,  raised  up,  for  ages  dead, 
And  fixed  for  us  her  heavenly  head : 
And,  rent  with  plaited  thorn  and  rod, 
Bared  the  live  likeness  of  her  God 
To  men's  eyes  turning  from  strange  lands, 
Where,  pale  from  thine  immortal  hands, 
Christ  wounded  stands; 


137 


And  the  blood  blots  his  holy  hair 

And  white  brows  over  hungering  eyes 
That  plead  against  us,  and  the  fair 

Mute  lips  forlorn  of  words  or  sighs 
In  the  great  torment  that  bends  down 
His  bruised  head  with  the  bloomless  crown, 
White  as  the  unfruitful  thorn-flower, 
A  God  beheld  in  dreams  that  were 
Beheld  of  her. 

In  vain  on  all  these  sins  and  years 
Falls  the  sad  blood,  fall  the  slow  tears; 
In  vain  poured  forth  as  watersprings, 
Priests,  on  your  altars,  and  ye,  kings, 
About  your  seats  of  sanguine  gold; 
Still  your  God,  spat  upon  and  sold, 
Bleeds  at  your  hands;  but  now  is  gone 
All  his  flock  from  him  saving  one; 
Judas  alone. 

Surely  your  race  it  was  that  he, 

O  men  signed  backward  with  his  name, 
Beholding  in  Gethsemane 

Bled  the  red  bitter  sweat  of  shame, 
Knowing  how  the  word  of  Christian  should 
Mean  to  men  evil  and  not  good, 
Seem  to  men  shameful  for  your  sake, 
Whose  lips,  for  all  the  prayers  they  make, 
Man's  blood  must  slake. 

But  blood  nor  tears  ye  love  not,  you 
That  my  love  leads  my  longing  to, 
Fair  as  the  world's  old  faith  of  flowers, 
O  golden  goddesses  of  ours! 
From  what  Idalian  rose-pleasance 
Hath  Aphrodite  bidden  glance 
The  lovelier  lightnings  of  your  feet? 
From  what  sweet  Paphian  sward  or  seat 
Led  you  more  sweet? 

138 


O  white  three  sisters,  three  as  one, 

With  flowerlike  arms  for  flowery  bands 

Your  linked  limbs  glitter  like  the  sun, 
And  time  lies  beaten  at  your  hands. 

Time  and  wild  years  and  wars  and  men 

Pass,  and  ye  care  not  whence  or  when; 

With  calm  lips  over  sweet  for  scorn, 

Ye  watch  night  pass,  O  children  born 

Of  the  old-world  morn. 

Ah,  in  this  strange  and  shrineless  place, 
What  doth  a  goddess,  what  a  Grace, 
Where  no  Greek  worships  her  shrined  limbs 
With  wreaths  and  Cytherean  hymns? 
Where  no  lute  makes  luxurious 
The  adoring  airs  in  Amathus, 
Till  the  maid,  knowing  her  mother  near, 
Sobs  with  love,  aching  with  sweet  fear? 
What  do  ye  here? 

For  the  outer  land  is  sad,  and  wears 

A  raiment  of  a  flaming  fire; 
And  the  fierce  fruitless  mountain  stairs 

Climb,  yet  seem  wroth  and  loth  to  aspire, 
Climb,  and  break,  and  are  broken  down, 
And  through  their  clefts  and  crests  the  town 
Looks  west  and  sees  the  dead  sun  lie, 
In  sanguine  death  that  stains  the  sky 
With  angry  dye. 

And  from  the  war-worn  wastes  without 
In  twilight,  in  the  time  of  doubt, 
One  sound  comes  of  one  whisper,  where 
Moved  with  low  motions  of  slow  air 
The  great  trees  nigh  the  castle  swing 
In  the  sad  coloured  evening; 
"Ricorditi  di  me,  che  son 
La  Pia"~  that  small  sweet  word  alone 
Is  not  yet  gone. 


139 


"Ricorditi  di  me"-  the  sound 

Sole  out  of  deep  dumb  days  remote 

Across  the  fiery  and  fatal  ground 
Comes  tender  as  a  hurt  bird's  note 

To  where,  a  ghost  with  empty  hands, 

A  woe-worn  ghost,  her  palace  stands 

In  the  mid  city,  where  the  strong 

Bells  turn  the  sunset  air  to  song, 

And  the  towers  throng. 

With  other  face,  with  speech  the  same, 

A  mightier  maiden's  likeness  came 

Late  among  mourning  men  that  slept, 

A  sacred  ghost  that  went  and  wept, 

White  as  the  passion-wounded  Lamb, 

Saying,  "Ah,  remember  me,  that  am 

Italia."-  From  deep  sea  to  sea 

Earth  heard,  earth  knew  her,  that  this  was  she. 

"Ricorditi. 

"Love  made  me  of  all  things  fairest  thing, 
And  Hate  unmade  me;  this  knows  he 

Who  with  God's  sacerdotal  ring 

Enringed  mine  hand,  espousing  me." 

Yea,  in  thy  myriad-mooded  woe, 

Yea,  Mother,  hast  thou  not  said  so? 

Have  not  our  hearts  within  us  stirred, 

O  thou  most  holiest,  at  thy  word? 

Have  we  not  heard? 

As  this  dead  tragic  land  that  she 
Found  deadly,  such  was  time  to  thee; 
Years  passed  thee  withering  in  the  red 
Maremma,  years  that  deemed  thee  dead, 
Ages  that  sorrowed  or  that  scorned; 
And  all  this  while  though  all  they  mourned 
Thou  sawest  the  end  of  things  unclean, 
And  the  unborn  that  should  see  thee  a  queen. 
Have  we  not  seen? 


140 


The  weary  poet,  thy  sad  son, 

Upon  thy  soil,  under  thy  skies, 
Saw  all  Italian  things  save  one  - 

Italia;  this  thing  missed  his  eyes; 
The  old  mother-might,  the  breast,  the  face, 
That  reared,  that  lit  the  Roman  race; 
This  not  Leopardi  saw;  but  we, 
What  is  it,  Mother,  that  we  see, 
What  if  notthee? 

Look  thou  from  Siena  southward  home, 
Where  the  priest's  pall  hangs  rent  on  Rome, 
And  through  the  red  rent  swaddling-bands 
Toward  thine  she  strains  her  labouring  hands. 
Look  thou  and  listen,  and  let  be 
All  the  dead  quick,  all  the  bond  free; 
In  the  blind  eyes  let  there  be  sight; 
In  the  eighteen  centuries  of  the  night 
Let  there  be  light. 

Bow  down  the  beauty  of  thine  head, 

Sweet,  and  with  lips  of  living  breath 
Kiss  thy  sons  sleeping  and  thy  dead, 

That  there  be  no  more  sleep  or  death. 
Give  us  thy  light,  thy  might,  thy  love, 
Whom  thy  face  seen  afar  above 
Drew  to  thy  feet;  and  when,  being  free, 
Thou  hast  blest  thy  children  born  to  thee, 
Bless  also  me. 

Me  that  when  others  played  or  slept 
Sat  still  under  thy  cross  and  wept, 
Me  who  so  early  and  unaware 
Felt  fall  on  bent  bared  brows  and  hair 
-  Thin  drops  of  the  overflowing  flood!  - 
The  bitter  blessing  of  thy  blood; 
The  sacred  shadow  of  thy  pain, 
Thine,  the  true  maiden-mother,  slain 
And  raised  again. 

141 


Me  consecrated,  if  I  might, 

To  praise  thee,  or  to  love  at  least, 

O  mother  of  all  men's  dear  delight, 

Thou  madest  a  choral-souled  boy-priest, 

Before  my  lips  had  leave  to  sing, 

Or  my  hands  hardly  strength  to  cling 

About  the  intolerable  tree 

Whereto  they  had  nailed  my  heart  and  thee 

And  said,  "Let  be." 

For  to  thee  too  the  high  Fates  gave 
Grace  to  be  sacrificed  and  save, 
That  being  arisen,  in  the  equal  sun, 
God  and  the  People  should  be  one; 
By  those  red  roads  thy  footprints  trod, 
Man  more  divine,  more  human  God, 
Saviour;  that  where  no  light  was  known 
But  darkness,  and  a  daytime  flown, 
Light  should  be  shown. 

Let  there  be  light,  O  Italy! 

For  our  feet  falter  in  the  night. 
O  lamp  of  living  years  to  be, 

O  light  of  God,  let  there  be  light! 
Fill  with  a  love  keener  than  flame 
Men  sealed  in  spirit  with  thy  name, 
The  cities  and  the  Roman  skies, 
Where  men  with  other  than  man's  eyes 
Saw  thy  sun  rise. 

For  theirs  thou  wast  and  thine  were  they 
Whose  names  outshine  thy  very  day; 
For  they  are  thine  and  theirs  thou  art 
Whose  blood  beats  living  in  man's  heart, 
Remembering  ages  fled  and  dead 
Wherein  for  thy  sake  these  men  bled; 
They  that  saw  Trebia,  they  that  see 
Mentana,  they  in  years  to  be 
That  shall  see  thee. 


142 


For  thine  are  all  of  us,  and  ours 

Thou;  till  the  seasons  bring  to  birth 

A  perfect  people,  and  all  the  powers 
Be  with  them  that  bear  fruit  on  earth ; 

Till  the  inner  heart  of  man  be  one 

With  freedom,  and  the  sovereign  sun; 

And  Time,  in  likeness  of  a  guide, 

Lead  the  Republic  as  a  bride 

Up  to  God's  side. 


143 


COR  CORDIUM 


HEART  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire, 
Hid  round  with  flowers  &  all  the  bounty  of  bloom ; 
O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 
The  lyrist  liberty  made  life  a  lyre; 
O  heavenly  heart,  at  whose  most  dear  desire 
Dead  love,  living  and  singing,  cleft  his  tomb, 
And  with  him  risen  and  regent  in  death's  room 
All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  choir; 
O  heart  whose  beating  blood  was  running  song, 
O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own  songs  were, 

Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be  free, 
True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy  strength's  sake  strong, 
Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 
The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 


144 


IN  SAN  LORENZO 


IS  thine  hour  come  to  wake,  O  slumbering  Night? 
Hath  not  the  Dawn  a  message  in  thine  ear? 
Though  thou  be  stone  and  sleep,  jet  shalt  thou  hear 
When  the  word  falls  from  heaven  -  Let  there  be  light. 
Thou  knowest  we  would  not  do  thee  the  despite 

To  wake  thee  while  the  old  sorrow  &  shame  were  near; 
We  spake  not  loud  for  thy  sake,  and  for  fear 
Lest  thou  shouldst  lose  the  rest  that  was  thy  right, 
The  blessing  given  thee  that  was  thine  alone, 
The  happiness  to  sleep  and  to  be  stone: 

Nay,  we  kept  silence  of  thee  for  thy  sake 
Albeit  we  knew  thee  alive,  and  left  with  thee 
The  great  good  gift  to  feel  not  nor  to  see; 
But  will  not  yet  thine  Angel  bid  thee  wake? 


145 


TIRESIAS 
Parti 

IT  is  an  hour  before  the  hour  of  dawn. 
Set  in  mine  hand  my  staff  and  leave  me  here 
Outside  the  hollow  house  that  blind  men  fear, 
More  blind  than  I  who  live  on  life  withdrawn 
And  feel  on  eyes  that  see  not  but  foresee 
The  shadow  of  death  which  clothes  Antigone. 

Here  lay  her  living  body  that  here  lies 

Dead,  if  man  living  know  what  thing  is  death, 
If  life  be  all  made  up  of  blood  and  breath, 

And  no  sense  be  save  as  of  ears  and  eyes. 

But  heart  there  is  not,  tongue  there  is  not  found, 
To  think  or  sing  what  verge  hath  life  or  bound. 

In  the  beginning  when  the  powers  that  made 
The  young  child  man  a  little  loved  him,  seeing 
His  joy  of  life  and  fair  face  of  his  being, 

And  bland  and  laughing  with  the  man-child  played, 
As  friends  they  saw  on  our  divine  one  day 
King  Cadmus  take  to  queen  Harmonia. 

The  strength  of  soul  that  builds  up  as  with  hands 
Walls  spiritual  and  towers  and  towns  of  thought 
Which  only  fate,  not  force,  can  bring  to  nought, 

Took  then  to  wife  the  light  of  all  men's  lands, 
War's  child  &  love's,  most  sweet  &  wise  &  strong, 
Order  of  things  and  rule  and  guiding  song. 


146 


It  was  long  since:  yea,  even  the  sun  that  saw 
Remembers  hardly  what  was,  nor  how  long. 
And  now  the  wise  heart  of  the  worldly  song 

Is  perished,  and  the  holy  hand  of  law 
Can  set  no  tune  on  time,  nor  help  again 
The  power  of  thought  to  build  up  life  for  men. 

Yea,  surely  are  they  now  transformed  or  dead, 
And  sleep  below  this  world,  where  no  sun  warms, 
Or  move  about  it  now  in  formless  forms 

Incognizable,  and  all  their  lordship  fled; 

And  where  they  stood  up  singing  crawl  and  hiss, 
With  fangs  that  kill  behind  their  lips  that  kiss. 

Yet  though  her  marriage-garment,  seeming  fair, 
Was  dyed  in  sin  and  woven  of  jealousy 
To  turn  their  seed  to  poison,  time  shall  see 

The  gods  reissue  from  them,  and  repair 
Their  broken  stamp  of  godhead,  and  again 
Thought  and  wise  love  sing  words  of  law  to  men. 

I,  Tiresias  the  prophet,  seeing  in  Thebes 
Much  evil,  and  the  misery  of  men's  hands 
Who  sow  with  fruitless  wheat  the  stones  6*  sands, 

With  fruitful  thorns  the  fallows  and  warm  glebes, 
Bade  their  hands  hold  lest  worse  hap  came  to  pass; 
But  which  of  you  had  heed  of  Tiresias? 

I  am  as  Time's  self  in  mine  own  wearied  mind, 
Whom  the  strong  heavy-footed  years  have  led 
From  night  to  night  and  dead  men  unto  dead, 

And  from  the  blind  hope  to  the  memory  blind; 
For  each  man's  life  is  woven,  as  Time's  life  is, 
Of  blind  young  hopes  and  old  blind  memories. 


I  am  a  soul  outside  of  death  and  birth. 

I  see  before  me  and  afterward  I  see, 

O  child,  O  corpse,  the  live  dead  face  of  thee, 
Whose  life  and  death  are  one  thing  upon  earth 

Where  day  kills  night  and  night  again  kills  day 

And  dies;  but  where  is  that  Harmonia? 

O  all-beholden  light  not  seen  of  me, 

Air,  and  warm  winds  that  under  the  sun's  eye 
Stretch  your  strong  wings  at  morning;  &  thou,  sky, 

Whose  hollow  circle  engirdling  earth  and  sea 
All  night  the  set  stars  limit,  and  all  day 
The  moving  sun  remeasures;  ye,  I  say, 

Ye  heights  of  hills,  and  thou  Dircean  spring 
Inviolable,  and  ye  towers  that  saw  cast  down 
Seven  kings  keen-sighted  toward  your  seven-faced  town 

And  quenched  the  red  seed  of  one  sightless  king; 
And  thou,  for  death  less  dreadful  than  for  birth, 
Whose  wild  leaves  hide  the  horror  of  the  earth, 

O  mountain  whereon  gods  made  chase  of  kings, 
Cithaeron,  thou  that  sawest  on  Pentheus  dead 
Fangs  of  a  mother  fasten  and  wax  red 

And  satiate  with  a  son  thy  swollen  springs, 

And  heardst  her  cry  fright  all  thine  eyries'  nests 
Who  gave  death  suck  at  sanguine-suckling  breasts; 

Yea,  and  a  grief  more  grievous,  without  name, 
A  curse  too  grievous  for  the  name  of  grief, 
Thou  sawest,  and  heardst  the  rumour  scare  belief 

Even  unto  death  and  madness,  when  the  flame 
Was  lit  whose  ashes  dropped  about  the  pyre 
That  of  two  brethren  made  one  sundering  fire; 


148 


0  bitter  nurse,  that  on  thine  hard  bare  knees 
Rear'dst  for  his  fate  the  bloody-footed  child 
Whose  hands  should  be  more  bloodily  defiled 

And  the  old  blind  feet  walk  wearier  ways  than  these, 
Whose  seed,  brought  forth  in  darkness  unto  doom, 
Should  break  as  fire  out  of  his  mother's  womb; 

1  bear  you  witness  as  ye  bear  to  me, 

Time,  day,  night,  sun,  stars,  life,  death,  air,  sea,  earth, 
And  ye  that  round  the  human  house  of  birth 
Watch  with  veiled  heads  &  weaponed  hands,  &  see 
Good  things  and  evil,  strengthlessyet  and  dumb, 
Sit  in  the  clouds  with  cloudlike  hours  to  come; 

Ye  forces  without  form  and  viewless  powers 
That  have  the  keys  of  all  our  years  in  hold, 
That  prophesy  too  late  with  tongues  of  gold, 

In  a  strange  speech  whose  words  are  perished  hours, 
I  witness  to  you  what  good  things  ye  give 
As  ye  to  me  what  evil  while  I  live. 

What  should  I  do  to  blame  you,  what  to  praise, 

For  floral  hours  and  hours  funereal? 

What  should  I  do  to  curse  or  bless  at  all 
For  winter-woven  or  summer- coloured  days? 

Curse  he  that  will  and  bless  you  whoso  can, 

I  have  no  common  part  in  you  with  man. 

I  hear  a  springing  water,  whose  quick  sound 
Makes  softer  the  soft  sunless  patient  air, 
And  the  wind's  hand  is  laid  on  my  thin  hair 

Light  as  a  lover's,  and  the  grasses  round 

Have  odours  in  them  of  green  bloom  and  rain 
Sweet  as  the  kiss  wherewith  sleep  kisses  pain. 


U9 


I  hear  the  low  sound  of  the  spring  of  time 
Still  beating  as  the  low  live  throb  of  blood, 
And  where  its  waters  gather  head  and  flood 

I  hear  change  moving  on  them,  and  the  chime 
Across  them  of  reverberate  wings  of  hours 
Sounding,  and  feel  the  future  air  of  flowers. 

The  wind  of  change  is  soft  as  snow,  and  sweet 

The  sense  thereof  as  roses  in  the  sun, 

The  faint  wind  springing  with  the  springs  that  run, 
The  dim  sweet  smell  of  flowering  hopes,  and  heat 

Of  unbeholden  sunrise;  yet  how  long 

I  know  not,  till  the  morning  put  forth  song. 

I  prophesy  of  life,  who  live  with  death; 

Of  joy,  being  sad;  of  sunlight,  who  am  blind; 

Of  man,  whose  ways  are  alien  from  mankind 
And  his  lips  are  not  parted  with  man's  breath; 

I  am  a  word  out  of  the  speechless  years, 

The  tongue  of  time,  that  no  man  sleeps  who  hears. 

I  stand  a  shadow  across  the  door  of  doom, 

Athwart  the  lintel  of  death's  house,  and  wait; 
Nor  quick  nor  dead,  nor  flexible  by  fate, 

Nor  quite  of  earth  nor  wholly  of  the  tomb; 
A  voice,  a  vision,  light  as  fire  or  air, 
Driven  between  days  that  shall  be  6>  that  were. 

I  prophesy,  with  feet  upon  a  grave, 

Of  death  cast  out  and  life  devouring  death 
As  flame  doth  wood  and  stubble  with  a  breath; 

Of  freedom,  though  all  manhood  were  one  slave; 
Of  truth,  though  all  the  world  were  liar;  of  love, 
That  time  nor  hate  can  raze  the  witness  of. 


150 


Life  that  was  given  for  love's  sake  and  his  law's 
Their  powers  have  no  more  power  on ;  they  divide 
Spoils  wrung  from  lust  or  wrath  of  man  or  pride, 

And  keen  oblivion  without  pity  or  pause 
Sets  them  on  fire  and  scatters  them  on  air 
Like  ashes  shaken  from  a  suppliant's  hair. 

But  life  they  lay  no  hand  on;  life  once  given 
No  force  of  theirs  hath  competence  to  take; 
Life  that  was  given  for  some  divine  thing's  sake, 

To  mix  the  bitterness  of  earth  with  heaven, 

Light  with  man's  night,  &  music  with  his  breath, 
Dies  not,  but  makes  its  living  food  of  death. 

I  have  seen  this,  who  live  where  men  are  not, 
In  the  high  starless  air  of  fruitful  night 
On  that  serenest  and  obscurest  height 

Where  dead  &  unborn  things  are  one  in  thought 
And  whence  the  live  unconquerable  springs 
Feed  full  offeree  the  torrents  of  new  things. 

I  have  seen  this,  who  saw  long  since,  being  man, 
As  now  I  know  not  if  indeed  I  be, 
The  fair  bare  body  of  Wisdom,  good  to  see 

And  evil,  whence  my  light  and  night  began; 
Light  on  the  goal  and  darkness  on  the  way, 
Light  all  through  night  6*  darkness  all  through  day. 

Mother,  that  by  that  Pegasean  spring 

Didst  fold  round  in  thine  arms  thy  blinded  son, 
Weeping  "O  holiest,  what  thing  hast  thou  done, 

What,  to  my  child?  woe's  me  that  see  the  thing! 
Is  this  thy  love  to  me-ward,  and  hereof 
Must  I  take  sample  how  the  gods  can  love? 


"O  child,  thou  hast  seen  indeed,  poor  child  of  mine, 
The  breasts  and  flanks  of  Pallas  bare  in  sight, 
But  never  shalt  see  more  the  dear  sun's  light; 

0  Helicon,  how  great  a  pay  is  thine 

For  some  poor  antelopes  and  wild-deer  dead, 
My  child's  eyes  hast  thou  taken  in  their  stead  -" 

Mother,  thou  knewest  not  what  she  had  to  give, 
Thy  goddess,  though  then  angered,  for  mine  eyes; 
Fame  and  foreknowledge,  &  to  be  most  wise, 

And  centuries  of  high-thoughted  life  to  live, 
And  in  mine  hand  this  guiding  staff  to  be 
As  eyesight  to  the  feet  of  men  that  see. 

Perchance  I  shall  not  die  at  all,  nor  pass 
The  general  door  and  lintel  of  men  dead; 
Yet  even  the  very  tongue  of  wisdom  said 

What  grace  should  come  with  death  to  Tiresias, 
What  special  honour  that  God's  hand  accord 
Who  gathers  all  men's  nations  as  their  lord. 

And  sometimes  when  the  secret  eye  of  thought 
Is  changed  with  obscuration,  and  the  sense 
Aches  with  long  pain  of  hollow  prescience, 

And  fiery  foresight  with  foresuffering  bought 
Seems  even  to  infect  my  spirit  and  consume, 
Hunger  and  thirst  come  on  me  for  the  tomb. 

1  could  be  fain  to  drink  my  death  and  sleep, 

And  no  more  wrapped  about  with  bitter  dreams 
Talk  with  the  stars  6>  with  the  winds  &  streams 
And  with  the  inevitable  years,  and  weep; 

For  how  should  he  who  communes  with  the  years 
Be  sometime  not  a  living  spring  of  tears? 


152 


O  child,  that  guided  of  thine  only  will 
Didst  set  thy  maiden  foot  against  the  gate 
To  strike  it  open  ere  thine  hour  of  fate, 

Antigone,  men  say  not  thou  didst  ill, 

For  love's  sake  and  the  reverence  of  his  awe 
Divinely  dying,  slain  by  mortal  law; 

For  love  is  awful  as  immortal  death. 

And  through  thee  surely  hath  thy  brother  won 
Rest,  out  of  sight  of  our  world-weary  sun, 

And  in  the  dead  land  where  ye  ghosts  draw  breath 
A  royal  place  and  honour;  so  wast  thou 
Happy,  though  earth  have  hold  of  thee  too  now. 

So  hast  thou  life  and  name  inviolable 
And  joy  it  may  be,  sacred  and  severe, 
Joy  secret-souled  beyond  all  hope  or  fear, 

A  monumental  joy  wherein  to  dwell 
Secluse  and  silent,  a  selected  state, 
Serene  possession  of  thy  proper  fate. 

Thou  art  not  dead  as  these  are  dead  who  live 
Full  of  blind  years,  a  sorrow-shaken  kind, 
Nor  as  these  are  am  I  the  prophet  blind; 

They  have  not  life  that  have  not  heart  to  give 
Life,  nor  have  eyesight  who  lack  heart  to  see 
When  to  be  not  is  better  than  to  be. 

O  ye  whom  time  but  bears  with  for  a  span, 

How  long  will  ye  be  blind  and  dead,  how  long 
Make  your  own  souls  part  of  your  own  soul's  wrong? 

Son  of  the  word  of  the  most  high  gods,  man, 

Why  wilt  thou  make  thine  hour  of  light  &  breath 
Emptier  of  all  but  shame  than  very  death? 


Fool,  wilt  thou  live  for  ever?  though  thou  care 
With  all  thine  heart  for  life  to  keep  it  fast, 
Shall  not  thine  hand  forego  it  at  the  last? 

Lo,  thy  sure  hour  shall  take  thee  by  the  hair 

Sleeping,  or  when  thou  knowest  not,  or  wouldst  fly; 
And  as  men  died  much  mightier  shalt  thou  die. 

Yea,  they  are  dead,  men  much  more  worth  than  thou; 

The  savour  of  heroic  lives  that  were, 

Is  it  not  mixed  into  thy  common  air? 
The  sense  of  them  is  shed  about  thee  now: 

Feel  not  thy  brows  a  wind  blowing  from  far? 

Aches  not  thy  forehead  with  a  future  star? 

The  light  that  thou  may'st  make  out  of  thy  name 
Is  in  the  wind  of  this  same  hour  that  drives, 
Blown  within  reach  but  once  of  all  men's  lives; 

And  he  that  puts  forth  hand  upon  the  flame 
Shall  have  it  for  a  garland  on  his  head 
To  sign  him  for  a  king  among  the  dead. 

But  these  men  that  the  lessening  years  behold, 
Who  sit  the  most  part  without  flame  or  crown, 
And  brawl  &  sleep  &  wear  their  life-days  down 

With  joys  and  griefs  ignobler  than  of  old, 
And  care  not  if  the  better  day  shall  be,- 
Are  these  or  art  thou  dead,  Antigone? 


154 


Part  II 

As  when  one  wakes  out  of  a  waning  dream 

And  sees  with  instant  eyes  the  naked  thought 
%  Whereof  the  vision  as  a  web  was  wrought, 
I  saw  beneath  a  heaven  of  cloud  and  gleam, 

Ere  yet  the  heart  of  the  young  sun  waxed  brave, 
One  like  a  prophet  standing  by  a  grave. 

In  the  hoar  heaven  was  hardly  beam  or  breath, 
And  all  the  coloured  hills  and  fields  were  grey, 
And  the  wind  wandered  seeking  for  the  day, 

And  wailed  as  though  he  had  found  her  done  to  death 
And  this  grey  hour  had  built  to  bury  her 
The  hollow  twilight  for  a  sepulchre. 

But  in  my  soul  I  saw  as  in  a  glass 
A  pale  and  living  body  full  of  grace 
There  lying,  and  over  it  the  prophet's  face 

Fixed;  and  the  face  was  not  of  Tiresias, 
For  such  a  starry  fire  was  in  his  eyes 
As  though  their  light  it  was  that  made  the  skies. 

Such  eyes  should  God's  have  been  when  very  love 
Looked  forth  of  them  and  set  the  sun  aflame, 
And  such  his  lips  that  called  the  light  by  name 

And  bade  the  morning  forth  at  sound  thereof; 
His  face  was  sad  and  masterful  as  fate, 
And  like  a  star's  his  look  compassionate. 

Like  a  star's  gazed  on  of  sad  eyes  so  long 
It  seems  to  yearn  with  pity,  and  all  its  fire 
As  a  man's  heart  to  tremble  with  desire 

And  heave  as  though  the  light  would  bring  forth  song; 
Yet  from  his  face  flashed  lightning  on  the  land, 
And  like  the  thunder-bearer's  was  his  hand. 


The  steepness  of  strange  stairs  had  tired  his  feet, 
And  his  lips  yet  seemed  sick  of  that  salt  bread 
Wherewith  the  lips  of  banishment  are  fed; 

But  nothing  was  there  in  the  world  so  sweet 
As  the  most  bitter  love,  like  God's  own  grace, 
Wherewith  he  gazed  on  that  fair  buried  face. 

Grief  and  glad  pride  and  passion  and  sharp  shame, 
Wrath  6-  remembrance,  faith  &  hope  &  hate 
And  pitiless  pity  of  days  degenerate, 

Were  in  his  eyes  as  an  incorporate  flame 

That  burned  about  her,  and  the  heart  thereof 
And  central  flower  was  very  fire  of  love. 

But  all  about  her  grave  wherein  she  slept 
Were  noises  of  the  wild  wind-footed  years 
Whose  footprints  flying  were  full  of  blood  &  tears, 

Shrieks  as  of  Maenads  on  their  hills  that  leapt 
And  yelled  as  beasts  of  ravin,  and  their  meat 
Was  the  rent  flesh  of  their  own  sons  to  eat: 

And  fiery  shadows  passing  with  strange  cries, 
And  Sphinx-like  shapes  about  the  ruined  lands, 
And  the  red  reek  of  parricidal  hands 

And  intermixture  of  incestuous  eyes, 
And  light  as  of  that  self-divided  flame 
Which  made  an  end  of  the  Cadmean  name. 

And  I  beheld  again,  and  lo  the  grave, 
And  the  bright  body  laid  therein  as  dead, 
And  the  same  shadow  across  another  head 

That  bowed  down  silent  on  that  sleeping  slave 
Who  was  the  lady  of  empire  from  her  birth 
And  light  of  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 


156 


Within  the  compass  of  the  watcher's  hand 
All  strengths  of  other  men  and  divers  powers 
Were  held  at  ease  and  gathered  up  as  flowers; 

His  heart  was  as  the  heart  of  his  whole  land, 
And  at  his  feet  as  natural  servants  lay 
Twilight  &  dawn  and  night  &  labouring  day. 

He  was  most  awful  of  the  sons  of  God. 

Even  now  men  seeing  seemed  at  his  lips  to  see 

The  trumpet  of  the  judgment  that  should  be, 
And  in  his  right  hand  terror  for  a  rod, 

And  in  the  breath  that  made  the  mountains  bow 

The  horned  fire  of  Moses  on  his  brow. 

The  strong  wind  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord 

Had  blown  as  flame  upon  him,  &  brought  down 
On  his  bare  head  from  heaven  fire  for  a  crown, 

And  fire  was  girt  upon  him  as  a  sword 

To  smite  and  lighten,  and  on  what  ways  he  trod 
There  fell  from  him  the  shadow  of  a  God. 

Pale,  with  the  whole  world's  judgment  in  his  eyes, 
He  stood  and  saw  the  grief  and  shame  endure 
That  he,  though  highest  of  angels,  might  not  cure, 

And  the  same  sins  done  under  the  same  skies, 
And  the  same  slaves  to  the  same  tyrants  thrown, 
And  fain  he  would  have  slept,  and  fain  been  stone. 

But  with  unslumbering  eyes  he  watched  the  sleep 
That  sealed  her  sense  whose  eyes  were  suns  of  old ; 
And  the  night  shut  and  opened,  and  behold, 

The  same  grave  where  those  prophets  came  to  weep, 
But  she  that  lay  therein  had  moved  and  stirred, 
And  where  those  twain  had  watched  her  stood  a  third. 


The  tripled  rhyme  that  closed  in  Paradise 

With  Love's  name  sealing  up  its  starry  speech  - 
The  tripled  might  of  hand  that  found  in  reach 

All  crowns  beheld  far  off  of  all  men's  eyes, 
Song,  colour,  carven  wonders  of  live  stone  - 
These  were  not,  but  the  very  soul  alone. 

The  living  spirit,  the  good  gift  of  grace, 

The  faith  which  takes  of  its  own  blood  to  give 
That  the  dead  veins  of  buried  hope  may  live, 

Came  on  her  sleeping,  face  to  naked  face, 
And  from  a  soul  more  sweet  than  all  the  south 
Breathed  love  upon  her  sealed  &  breathless  mouth. 

Between  her  lips  the  breath  was  blown  as  fire, 

And  through  her  flushed  veins  leapt  the  liquid  life, 
And  with  sore  passion  and  ambiguous  strife 

The  new  birth  rent  her  and  the  new  desire, 
The  will  to  live,  the  competence  to  be, 
The  sense  to  hearken  and  the  soul  to  see. 

And  the  third  prophet  standing  by  her  grave 

Stretched  forth  his  hand  &  touched  her,  6*  her  eyes 
Opened  as  sudden  suns  in  heaven  might  rise, 

And  her  soul  caught  from  his  the  faith  to  save; 
Faith  above  creeds,  faith  beyond  records,  born 
Of  the  pure,  naked,  fruitful,  awful  morn. 

For  in  the  daybreak  now  that  night  was  dead 
The  light,  the  shadow,  the  delight,  the  pain, 
The  purpose  and  the  passion  of  those  twain, 

Seemed  gathered  on  that  third  prophetic  head, 
And  all  their  crowns  were  as  one  crown,  and  one 
His  face  with  her  face  in  the  living  sun. 


For  even  with  that  communion  of  their  eyes 

His  whole  soul  passed  into  her  6  made  her  strong; 
And  all  the  sounds  &  shows  of  shame  &  wrong, 

The  hand  that  slays,  the  lip  that  mocks  and  lies, 
Temples  and  thrones  that  yet  men  seem  to  see,- 
Are  these  dead  or  art  thou  dead,  Italy? 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STANDARD 


AIDEN  most  beautiful,  mother  most  bountiful,  lady  of  lands, 

Queen  &  republican,  crowned  of  the  centuries  whoseyears  are  thy  sands, 

See  for  thy  sake  what  we  bring  to  thee,  Italy,  here  in  our  hands. 

This  is  the  banner  thy  gonfalon,  fair  in  the  front  of  thy  fight, 

Red  from  the  hearts  that  were  pierced  for  thee,  white  as  thy  mountains  are  white, 

Green  as  the  spring  of  thy  soul  everlasting,  whose  life-blood  is  light. 

Take  to  thy  bosom  thy  banner,  a  fair  bird  fit  for  the  nest, 
Feathered  for  flight  into  sunrise  or  sunset,  for  eastward  or  west, 
Fledged  for  the  flight  everlasting,  but  held  yet  warm  to  thy  breast. 

Gather  it  close  to  thee,  song-bird  or  storm-bearer,  eagle  or  dove, 
Lift  it  to  sunward,  a  beacon  beneath  to  the  beacon  above, 
Green  as  our  hope  in  it,  white  as  our  faith  in  it,  red  as  our  love. 

Thunder  and  splendour  of  lightning  are  hid  in  the  folds  of  it  furled; 
Who  shall  unroll  it  but  thou,  as  thy  bolt  to  be  handled  and  hurled, 
Out  of  whose  lips  is  the  honey,  whose  bosom  the  milk  of  the  world? 

Out  of  thine  hands  hast  thou  fed  us  with  pasture  of  colour  and  song; 

Glory  and  beauty  by  birthright  to  thee  as  thy  garments  belong; 

Out  of  thine  hands  thou  shalt  give  us  as  surely  deliverance  from  wrong. 

Out  of  thine  eyes  thou  hast  shed  on  us  love  as  a  lamp  in  our  night, 
Wisdom  a  lodestar  to  ships,  and  remembrance  a  flame-coloured  light; 
Out  of  thine  eyes  thou  shalt  shew  us  as  surely  the  sundawn  of  right. 


160 


Turn  to  us,  speak  to  us,  Italy,  mother,  but  once  and  a  word, 

None  shall  not  follow  thee,  none  shall  not  serve  thee,  not  one  that  has  heard; 

Twice  hast  thou  spoken  a  message,  and  time  is  athirst  for  the  third. 

Kingdom  and  empire  of  peoples  thou  hadst,  and  thy  lordship  made  one 
North  sea  and  south  sea  and  east  men  and  west  men  that  look  on  the  sun; 
Spirit  was  in  thee  and  counsel,  when  soul  in  the  nations  was  none. 

Banner  and  beacon  thou  wast  to  the  centuries  of  storm-wind  and  foam, 
Ages  that  clashed  in  the  dark  with  each  other,  and  years  without  home; 
Empress  and  prophetess  wast  thou,  and  what  wilt  thou  now  be,  O  Rome? 

Ah,  by  the  faith  and  the  hope  and  the  love  that  have  need  of  thee  now, 
Shines  not  thy  face  with  the  forethought  of  freedom,  &  burns  not  thy  brow? 
Who  is  against  her  but  all  men?  and  who  is  beside  her  but  thou? 

Art  thou  not  better  than  all  men?  and  where  shall  she  turn  but  to  thee? 
Lo,  not  a  breath,  not  a  beam,  not  a  beacon  from  midland  to  sea; 
Freedom  cries  out  for  a  sign  among  nations,  and  none  will  be  free. 

England  in  doubt  of  her,  France  in  despair  of  her,  all  without  heart - 

Stand  on  her  side  in  the  vanward  of  ages,  and  strike  on  her  part! 

Strike  but  one  stroke  for  the  love  of  her  love  of  thee,  sweet  that  thou  art! 

Take  in  thy  right  hand  thy  banner,  a  strong  staff  fit  for  thine  hand; 
Forth  at  the  light  of  it  lifted  shall  foul  things  flock  from  the  land; 
Faster  than  stars  from  the  sun  shall  they  fly,  being  lighter  than  sand. 

Green  thing  to  green  in  the  summer  makes  answer,  and  rose-tree  to  rose; 
Lily  by  lily  the  year  becomes  perfect;  and  none  of  us  knows 
What  thing  is  fairest  of  all  things  on  earth  as  it  brightens  and  blows. 

This  thing  is  fairest  in  all  time  of  all  things,  in  all  time  is  best  - 

Freedom,  that  made  thee,  our  mother,  and  suckled  her  sons  at  thy  breast; 

Take  to  thy  bosom  the  nations,  and  there  shall  the  world  come  to  rest. 


161 


ON  THE  DOWNS 


FAINT  sea  without  wind  or  sun; 
A  sky  like  flameless  vapour  dun; 
A  valley  like  an  unsealed  grave 
That  no  man  cares  to  weep  upon, 

Bare,  without  boon  to  crave, 
Or  flower  to  save. 

And  on  the  lip's  edge  of  the  down, 

Here  where  the  bent-grass  burns  to  brown 

In  the  dry  sea-wind,  and  the  heath 
Crawls  to  the  cliff-side  and  looks  down, 

I  watch,  and  hear  beneath 
The  low  tide  breathe. 

Along  the  long  lines  of  the  cliff, 
Down  the  flat  sea-line  without  skiff 

Or  sail  or  back- blown  fume  for  mark, 
Through  wind-worn  heads  of  heath  6V  stiff 

Stems  blossomless  and  stark 
With  dry  sprays  dark, 

I  send  mine  eyes  out  as  for  news 
Of  comfort  that  all  these  refuse, 

Tidings  of  light  or  living  air 
From  windward  where  the  low  clouds  muse 

And  the  sea  blind  and  bare 
Seems  full  of  care. 


162 


So  is  it  now  as  it  was  then, 

And  as  men  have  been  such  are  men. 

There  as  I  stood  I  seem  to  stand, 
Here  sitting  chambered,  and  again 

Feel  spread  on  either  hand 
Sky,  sea,  and  land. 

As  a  queen  taken  and  stripped  and  bound 
Sat  earth,  discoloured  and  discrowned; 

As  a  king's  palace  empty  and  dead 
The  sky  was,  without  light  or  sound; 

And  on  the  summer's  head 
Were  ashes  shed. 

Scarce  wind  enough  was  on  the  sea, 
Scarce  hope  enough  there  moved  in  me, 

To  sow  with  live  blown  flowers  of  white 
The  green  plain's  sad  serenity, 

Or  with  stray  thoughts  of  light 
Touch  my  soul's  sight. 

By  footless  ways  and  sterile  went 
My  thought  unsatisfied,  and  bent 

With  blank  unspeculative  eyes 
On  the  untracked  sands  of  discontent 

Where,  watched  of  helpless  skies, 
Life  hopeless  lies. 

East  and  west  went  my  soul  to  find 
Light,  and  the  world  was  bare  and  blind 

And  the  soil  herbless  where  she  trod 
And  saw  men  laughing  scourge  mankind, 

Unsmitten  by  the  rod 
Of  any  God. 


163 


Out  of  time's  blind  old  eyes  were  shed 
Tears  that  were  mortal,  and  left  dead 

The  heart  and  spirit  of  the  years, 
And  on  man's  fallen  and  helmless  head 

Time's  disanointing  tears 
Fell  cold  as  fears. 

Hope  flowering  had  but  strength  to  bear 
The  fruitless  fruitage  of  despair; 

Grief  trod  the  grapes  of  joy  for  wine, 
Whereof  love  drinking  unaware 

Died  as  one  undivine 
And  made  no  sign. 

And  soul  and  body  dwelt  apart; 
And  weary  wisdom  without  heart 

Stared  on  the  dead  round  heaven  6-  sighed, 
"  Is  death  too  hollow  as  thou  art, 

Or  as  man's  living  pride?" 
And  saying  so  died. 

And  my  soul  heard  the  songs  and  groans 
That  are  about  and  under  thrones, 

And  felt  through  all  time's  murmur  thrill 
Fate's  old  imperious  semitones 

That  made  of  good  and  ill 
One  same  tune  still. 

Then  "Where  is  God?  and  where  is  aid? 
Or  what  good  end  of  these?"  she  said; 

"Is  there  no  God  or  end  at  all, 
Nor  reason  with  unreason  weighed, 

Nor  force  to  disenthral 
Weak  feet  that  fall? 


164 


"No  light  to  lighten  and  no  rod 
To  chasten  men?  Is  there  no  God?" 

So  girt  with  anguish,  iron-zoned, 
Went  my  soul  weeping  as  she  trod 

Between  the  men  enthroned 
And  men  that  groaned. 

O  fool,  that  for  brute  cries  of  wrong 
Heard  not  the  grey  glad  mother's  song 

Ring  response  from  the  hills  &  waves, 
But  heard  harsh  noises  all  daylong 

Of  spirits  that  were  slaves 
And  dwelt  in  graves. 

The  wise  word  of  the  secret  earth 
Who  knows  what  life  6"  death  are  worth, 

And  how  no  help  and  no  control 
Can  speed  or  stay  things  come  to  birth, 

Nor  all  worlds'  wheels  that  roll 
Crush  one  born  soul. 

With  all  her  tongues  of  life  and  death, 
With  all  her  bloom  &  blood  &  breath, 

From  all  years  dead  &  all  things  done, 
In  the  ear  of  man  the  mother  saith, 

'There  is  no  God,  O  son, 
If  thoubenone." 

So  my  soul  sick  with  watching  heard 
That  day  the  wonder  of  that  word, 

And  as  one  springs  out  of  a  dream 
Sprang,  &  the  stagnant  wells  were  stirred 

Whence  flows  through  gloom  &  gleam 
Thought's  soundless  stream. 


165 


Out  of  pale  cliff  and  sunburnt  heath, 
Out  of  the  low  sea  curled  beneath 

In  the  land's  bending  arm  embayed, 
Out  of  all  lives  that  thought  hears  breathe 

Life  within  life  inlaid, 
Was  answer  made. 

A  multitudinous  monotone 

Of  dust  and  flower  and  seed  and  stone, 

In  the  deep  sea-rock's  mid-sea  sloth. 
In  the  live  water's  trembling  zone, 

In  all  men  love  and  loathe, 
One  God  at  growth. 

One  forceful  nature  un create 

That  feeds  itself  with  death  and  fate, 

Evil  and  good,  and  change  and  time, 
That  within  all  men  lies  at  wait 

Till  the  hour  shall  bid  them  climb 
And  live  sublime. 

For  all  things  come  by  fate  to  flower 
At  their  unconquerable  hour, 

And  time  brings  truth,  &  truth  makes  free, 
And  freedom  fills  time's  veins  with  power, 

As,  brooding  on  that  sea, 
My  thought  filled  me. 

And  the  sun  smote  the  clouds  and  slew, 
And  from  the  sun  the  sea's  breath  blew, 

And  white  waves  laughed  &  turned  6*  fled 
The  long  green  heaving  sea-field  through, 

And  on  them  overhead 
The  sky  burnt  red. 


166 


Like  a  furled  flag  that  wind  sets  free, 
On  the  swift  summer- coloured  sea 

Shook  out  the  red  lines  of  the  light, 
The  live  sun's  standard,  blown  to  lee 

Across  the  live  sea's  white 
And  green  delight. 

And  with  divine  triumphant  awe 
My  spirit  moved  within  me  saw, 

With  burning  passion  of  stretched  eyes, 
Clear  as  the  light's  own  firstborn  law, 

In  windless  wastes  of  skies 
Time's  deep  dawn  rise. 


167 


P 


MESSIDOR 


IUT  in  the  sickles  and  reap; 
For  the  morning  of  harvest  is  red, 
And  the  long  large  ranks  of  the  corn 
Coloured  and  clothed  as  the  morn 
Stand  thick  in  the  fields  and  deep 

For  them  that  faint  to  be  fed. 
Let  all  that  hunger  and  weep 

Come  hither,  and  who  would  have  bread 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

Coloured  and  clothed  as  the  morn, 
The  grain  grows  ruddier  than  gold, 
And  the  good  strong  sun  is  alight 
In  the  mists  of  the  day-dawn  white, 
And  the  crescent,  a  faint  sharp  horn, 

In  the  fear  of  his  face  turns  cold 
As  the  snakes  of  the  night-time  that  creep 

From  the  flag  of  our  faith  unrolled. 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

In  the  mists  of  the  day-dawn  white 
That  roll  round  the  morning  star, 
The  large  flame  lightens  &  grows 
Till  the  red-gold  harvest-rows, 
Full-grown,  are  full  of  the  light 

As  the  spirits  of  strong  men  are, 
Crying,  Who  shall  slumber  or  sleep? 

Who  put  back  morning  or  mar? 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

168 


Till  the  red-gold  harvest-rows 

For  miles  through  shudder  and  shine 
In  the  wind's  breath,  fed  with  the  sun, 
A  thousand  spear-heads  as  one 
Bowed  as  for  battle  to  close 
Line  in  rank  against  line 
With  place  and  station  to  keep 
Till  all  men's  hands  at  a  sign 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

A  thousand  spear-heads  as  one 
Wave  as  with  swing  of  the  sea 

When  the  mid  tide  sways  at  its  height ; 
For  the  hour  is  for  harvest  or  fight 
In  face  of  the  just  calm  sun, 

As  the  signal  in  season  may  be 
And  the  lot  in  the  helm  may  leap 

When  chance  shall  shake  it;  but  ye, 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

For  the  hour  is  for  harvest  or  fight 
To  clothe  with  raiment  of  red; 
O  men  sore  stricken  of  hours, 
Lo,  this  one,  is  not  it  ours 
To  glean,  to  gather,  to  smite? 

Let  none  make  risk  of  his  head 
Within  reach  of  the  clean  scythe-sweep, 
When  the  people  that  lay  as  the  dead 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

Lo,  this  one,  is  not  it  ours, 

Now  the  ruins  of  dead  things  rattle 
As  dead  men's  bones  in  the  pit, 
Now  the  kings  wax  lean  as  they  sit 
Girt  round  with  memories  of  powers, 

With  musters  counted  as  cattle 
And  armies  folded  as  sheep 

Till  the  red  blind  husbandman  battle 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap? 

169 


Now  the  kings  wax  lean  as  they  sit, 
The  people  grow  strong  to  stand; 
The  men  they  trod  on  and  spat, 
The  dumb  dread  people  that  sat 
As  corpses  cast  in  a  pit, 

Rise  up  with  God  at  their  hand, 
And  thrones  are  hurled  on  a  heap, 

And  strong  men,  sons  of  the  land, 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 

The  dumb  dread  people  that  sat 

All  night  without  screen  for  the  night, 
All  day  without  food  for  the  day, 
They  shall  give  not  their  harvest  away, 
They  shall  eat  of  its  fruit  and  wax  fat: 

They  shall  see  the  desire  of  their  sight, 
Though  the  ways  of  the  seasons  be  steep, 
They  shall  climb  with  face  to  the  light, 
Put  in  the  sickles  and  reap. 


170 


ODE  ON  THE  INSURRECTION  IN  CANDIA 

Strophe  i 

I  LAID  my  laurel-leaf 
At  the  white  feet  of  grief, 
Seeing  how  with  covered  face  &  plumeless  wings, 
With  unreverted  head 
Veiled,  as  who  mourns  his  dead, 
Lay  Freedom  couched  between  the  thrones  of  kings, 

A  wearied  lion  without  lair, 
And  bleeding  from  base  wounds,  &  vexed  with  alien  air. 

Strophe  2 

Who  was  it,  who,  put  poison  to  thy  mouth, 

Who  lulled  with  craft  or  chant  thy  vigilant  eyes, 
O  light  of  all  men,  lamp  to  north  and  south, 

Eastward  and  westward,  under  all  men's  skies? 
For  if  thou  sleep,  we  perish,  and  thy  name 

Dies  with  the  dying  of  our  ephemeral  breath ; 
And  if  the  dust  of  death  o'ergrows  thy  flame, 

Heaven  also  is  darkened  with  the  dust  of  death. 
If  thou  be  mortal,  if  thou  change  or  cease, 
If  thine  hand  fail,  or  thine  eyes  turn  from  Greece, 
Thy  first-born,  and  the  first-fruits  of  thy  fame, 
God  is  no  God,  and  man  is  moulded  out  of  shame. 


171 


Strophe  3 

Is  there  change  in  the  secret  skies, 
In  the  sacred  places  that  see 
The  divine  beginning  of  things, 

The  weft  of  the  web  of  the  world? 
Is  Freedom  a  worm  that  dies, 
And  God  no  God  of  the  free? 

Is  heaven  like  as  earth  with  her  kings 
And  time  as  a  serpent  curled 
Round  life  as  a  tree? 


From  the  steel-bound  snows  of  the  north 
From  the  mystic  mother,  the  east, 
From  the  sands  of  the  fiery  south, 

From  the  low-lit  clouds  of  the  west, 
A  sound  of  a  cry  is  gone  forth; 
Arise,  stand  up  from  the  feast, 
Let  wine  be  far  from  the  mouth, 
Let  no  man  sleep  or  take  rest, 
Till  the  plague  hath  ceased. 


Let  none  rejoice  or  make  mirth 
Till  the  evil  thing  be  stayed, 
Nor  grief  be  lulled  in  the  lute, 

Nor  hope  be  loud  on  the  lyre; 
Let  none  be  glad  upon  earth, 
O  music  of  young  man  and  maid, 
O  songs  of  the  bride,  be  mute. 

For  the  light  of  her  eyes,  her  desire, 
Is  the  soul  dismayed. 


172 


It  is  not  a  land  new-born 

That  is  scourged  of  a  stranger's  hand, 
That  is  rent  &  consumed  with  flame. 

We  have  known  it  of  old,  this  face, 
With  the  cheeks  and  the  tresses  torn, 
With  shame  on  the  brow  as  a  brand. 
We  have  named  it  of  old  by  name, 
The  land  of  the  royallest  race, 
The  most  holy  land. 


Strophe  4 

Had  I  words  of  fire, 

Whose  words  are  weak  as  snow; 
Were  my  heart  a  lyre 

Whence  all  its  love  might  flow 
In  the  mighty  modulations  of  desire, 
In  the  notes  wherewith  man's  passion  worships  woe; 

Could  my  song  release 

The  thought  weak  words  confine, 
And  my  grief,  O  Greece, 

Prove  how  it  worships  thine; 
It  would  move  with  pulse  of  war  the  limbs  of  peace 
Till  she  flushed  and  trembled  and  became  divine. 

-  Once  she  held  for  true 

This  truth  of  sacred  strain ; 
Though  blood  drip  like  dew 
And  life  run  down  like  rain, 
It  is  better  that  war  spare  but  one  or  two 
Than  that  many  live,  and  liberty  be  slain.  - 


173 


Then  with  fierce  increase 

And  bitter  mother's  mirth. 
From  the  womb  of  peace, 

A  womb  that  yearns  for  birth, 
As  a  man-child  should  deliverance  come  to  Greece 
As  a  saviour  should  the  child  be  born  on  earth. 


Strophe  $ 

O  that  these  my  days  had  been 
Ere  white  peace  and  shame  were  wed 
Without  torch  or  dancers' din 
Round  the  unsacred  marriage-bed! 
For  of  old  the  sweet-tongued  law, 
Freedom,  clothed  with  all  men's  love, 
Girt  about  with  all  men's  awe, 
With  the  wild  war-eagle  mated 
The  white  breast  of  peace  the  dove, 
And  his  ravenous  heart  abated 
And  his  windy  wings  were  furled 
In  an  eyrie  consecrated 
Where  the  snakes  of  strife  uncurled, 
And  her  soul  was  soothed  and  sated 
With  the  welfare  of  the  world. 


Antistrophe  i 

But  now,  close-clad  with  peace, 
While  war  lays  hand  on  Greece, 

The  kingdoms  and  their  kings  stand  by  to  see; 
"Aha,  we  are  strong, "they  say, 
"We  are  sure,  we  are  well, "even  they; 

"And  if  we  serve,  what  ails  ye  to  be  free? 

We  are  warm,  clothed  round  with  peace  &  shame; 

But  ye  lie  dead  and  naked,  dying  for  a  name." 

174 


Antistrophe  2 

O  kings  and  queens  and  nations  miserable, 

O  fools  and  blind,  and  full  of  sins  and  fears, 
With  these  it  is,  with  you  it  is  not  well; 

Ye  have  one  hour,  but  these  the  immortal  years. 
These  for  a  pang,  a  breath,  a  pulse  of  pain, 

Have  honour,  while  that  honour  on  earth  shall  be; 
Ye  for  a  little  sleep  and  sloth  shall  gain 

Scorn,  while  one  man  of  all  men  born  is  free. 
Even  as  the  depth  more  deep  than  night  or  day, 
The  sovereign  heaven  that  keeps  its  eldest  way, 
So  without  chance  or  change,  so  without  stain, 
The  heaven  of  their  high  memories  shall  nor  wax  nor  wane. 


Antistrophe  3 

As  the  soul  on  the  lips  of  the  dead 
Stands  poising  her  wings  for  flight, 
A  bird  scarce  quit  of  her  prison, 
But  fair  without  form  or  flesh, 
So  stands  over  each  man's  head 
A  splendour  of  imminent  light, 
A  glory  of  fame  rearisen, 
Of  day  rearisen  afresh 
From  the  hells  of  night. 

In  the  hundred  cities  of  Crete 
Such  glory  was  not  of  old, 

Though  her  name  was  great  upon  earth 

And  her  face  was  fair  on  the  sea. 
The  words  of  her  lips  were  sweet, 
Her  days  were  woven  with  gold, 
Her  fruits  came  timely  to  birth; 
So  fair  she  was,  being  free, 
Who  is  bought  and  sold. 


So  fair,  who  is  fairer  now 

With  her  children  dead  at  her  side, 
Unsceptred,  unconsecrated, 

Unapparelled,  unhelped,  unpitied, 
With  blood  for  gold  on  her  brow, 
Where  the  tower y  tresses  divide; 
The  goodly,  the  golden-gated, 

Many-crowned,  many-named,  many-citied, 
Made  like  as  a  bride. 

And  these  are  the  bridegroom's  gifts; 
Anguish  that  straitens  the  breath, 
Shame,  and  the  weeping  of  mothers, 

And  the  suckling  dead  at  the  breast, 
White  breast  that  a  long  sob  lifts; 

And  the  dumb  dead  mouth,  which  saith, 
"How  long,  and  how  long,  my  brothers?" 
And  wrath  which  endures  not  rest, 
And  the  pains  of  death. 


Antistrophe  4 

Ah,  but  would  that  men, 

With  eyelids  purged  by  tears, 
Saw,  and  heard  again 

With  consecrated  ears, 

All  the  clamour,  all  the  splendour,  all  the  slain, 
All  the  lights  &  sounds  of  war,  the  fates  &  fears; 

Saw  far  off  aspire, 

With  crash  of  mine  and  gate, 
From  a  single  pyre 

The  myriad  flames  of  fate, 
Soul  by  soul  transfigured  in  funereal  fire, 
Hate  made  weak  by  love,  '&  love  made  strong  by  hate. 

176 


Children  without  speech, 

And  many  a  nursing  breast; 
Old  men  in  the  breach, 

Where  death  sat  down  a  guest; 
With  triumphant  lamentation  made  for  each, 
Let  the  world  salute  their  ruin  and  their  rest. 


In  one  iron  hour 

The  crescent  flared  and  waned, 
As  from  tower  to  tower, 

Fire-scathed  6*  sanguine-stained, 
Death,  with  flame  in  hand,  an  open  bloodred  flower, 
Passed,  &  where  it  bloomed  no  bloom  of  life  remained. 


Antistrophe  3 

Hear,thou  earth,  the  heavy-hearted 
Weary  nurse  of  waning  races; 
From  the  dust  of  years  departed, 
From  obscure  funereal  places, 
Raise  again  thy  sacred  head, 
Lift  the  light  up  of  thine  eyes; 
Where  are  they  of  all  thy  dead 
That  did  more  than  these  men  dying 
In  their  godlike  Grecian  wise? 
Not  with  garments  rent  and  sighing, 
Neither  gifts  of  myrrh  and  gold, 
Shall  their  sons  lament  them  lying, 
Lest  the  fame  of  them  wax  cold; 
But  with  lives  to  lives  replying, 
And  a  worship  from  of  old. 


aa  177 


Epode 

O  sombre  heart  of  earth  and  swoln  with  grief, 

That  in  thy  time  wast  as  a  bird  for  mirth, 
Dim  womb  of  life  and  many  a  seed  and  sheaf, 
And  full  of  changes,  ancient  heart  of  earth, 
From  grain  and  flower,  from  grass  and  every  leaf, 

Thy  mysteries  and  thy  multitudes  of  birth, 
From  hollow  and  hill,  from  vales  6"  all  thy  springs, 
From  all  shapes  born  &  breath  of  all  lips  made, 
From  thunders,  and  the  sound  of  winds  and  wings, 
From  light,  and  from  the  solemn  sleep  of  shade, 
From  the  full  fountains  of  all  living  things, 

Speak,  that  this  plague  be  stayed. 
Bear  witness  all  the  ways  of  death  and  life 
If  thou  be  with  us  in  the  world's  old  strife, 

If  thou  be  mother  indeed, 

And  from  these  wounds  that  bleed 
Gather  in  thy  great  breast  the  dews  that  fall, 

And  on  thy  sacred  knees 

Lull  with  mute  melodies, 
Mother,  thy  sleeping  sons  in  death's  dim  hall. 

For  these  thy  sons,  behold, 

Sons  of  thy  sons  of  old, 
Bear  witness  if  these  be  not  as  they  were; 

If  that  high  name  of  Greece 

Depart,  dissolve,  decease 
From  mouths  of  men  and  memories  like  as  air. 

By  the  last  milk  that  drips 

Dead  on  the  child's  dead  lips, 
By  old  men's  white  unviolated  hair, 

By  sweet  unburied  faces 

That  fill  those  red  high  places 
Where  death  and  freedom  found  one  lion's  lair, 


178 


By  all  the  bloodred  tears 

That  fill  the  chaliced  years, 
The  vessels  of  the  sacrament  of  time, 

Wherewith,  O  thou  most  holy, 

O  Freedom,  sure  and  slowly 
Thy  ministrant  white  hands  cleanse  earth  of  crime; 

Though  we  stand  off  afar 

Where  slaves  and  slaveries  are, 
Among  the  chains  and  crowns  of  poisonous  peace; 

Though  not  the  beams  that  shone 

From  rent  Arcadion 
Can  melt  her  mists  and  bid  her  snows  decrease; 

Do  thou  with  sudden  wings 

Darken  the  face  of  kings, 
But  turn  again  the  beauty  of  thy  brows  on  Greece; 

Thy  white  and  woundless  brows, 

Whereto  her  great  heart  bows; 
Give  her  the  glories  of  thine  eyes  to  see; 

Turn  thee,  O  holiest  head, 

Toward  all  thy  quick  and  dead, 
For  love's  sake  of  the  souls  that  cry  for  thee; 

O  love,  O  light,  O  flame, 

By  thine  own  Grecian  name, 
We  call  thee  &  we  charge  thee  that  all  these  be  free. 

January,  1867. 


179 


"NON  DOLET 


IT  does  not  hurt.  She  looked  along  the  knife 
Smiling,  and  watched  the  thick  drops  mix  and  run 
Down  the  sheer  blade;  not  that  which  had  been  done 
Could  hurt  the  sweet  sense  of  the  Roman  wife, 
But  that  which  was  to  do  yet  ere  the  strife 
Could  end  for  each  for  ever,  and  the  sun : 
Nor  was  the  palm  yet  nor  was  peace  yet  won 
While  pain  had  power  upon  her  husband's  life. 

It  does  not  hurt,  Italia.  Thou  art  more 

Than  bride  to  bridegroom;  how  shall  thou  not  take 
The  gift  love's  blood  has  reddened  for  thy  sake? 

Was  not  thy  lifeblood  given  for  us  before? 
And  if  love's  heartblood  can  avail  thy  need, 
And  thou  not  die,  how  should  it  hurt  indeed? 


180 


EURYDICE 
To  Victor  Hugo 

RPHEUS,  the  night  is  full  of  tears  and  cries, 
And  hardly  for  the  storm  and  ruin  shed 
Can  even  thine  eyes  be  certain  of  her  head 
Who  never  passed  out  of  thy  spirit's  eyes, 
But  stood  and  shone  before  them  in  such  wise 
As  when  with  love  her  lips  and  hands  were  fed, 
And  with  mute  mouth  out  of  the  dusty  dead 
Strove  to  make  answer  when  thou  bad'st  her  rise. 

Yet  viper-stricken  must  her  lifeblood  feel 

The  fang  that  stung  her  sleeping,  the  foul  germ 
Even  when  she  wakes  of  hell's  most  poisonous  worm, 

Though  now  it  writhe  beneath  her  wounded  heel. 
Turn  yet,  she  will  not  fade  nor  fly  from  thee; 
Wait,  and  see  hell  yield  up  Eurydice. 


181 


AN  APPEAL 

i 

RT  thou  indeed  among  these, 
Thou  of  the  tyrannous  crew, 
The  kingdoms  fed  upon  blood, 
O  queen  from  of  old  of  the  seas, 
England,  art  thou  of  them  too 
That  drink  of  the  poisonous  flood, 
That  hide  under  poisonous  trees? 

•  • 

11 

Nay,  thy  name  from  of  old, 
Mother,  was  pure,  or  we  dreamed; 
Purer  we  held  thee  than  this, 
Purer  fain  would  we  hold ; 
So  goodly  a  glory  it  seemed, 
A  fame  so  bounteous  of  bliss, 
So  more  precious  than  gold. 

•  •  • 

111 

A  praise  so  sweet  in  our  ears, 
That  thou  in  the  tempest  of  things 
As  a  rock  for  a  refuge  shouldst  stand, 
In  the  bloodred  river  of  tears 
Poured  forth  for  the  triumph  of  kings; 
A  safeguard,  a  sheltering  land, 
In  the  thunder  and  torrent  of  years. 


182 


IV 

Strangers  came  gladly  to  thee, 

Exiles,  chosen  of  men, 

Safe  for  thy  sake  in  thy  shade, 

Sat  down  at  thy  feet  and  were  free. 

So  men  spake  of  thee  then; 

Now  shall  their  speaking  be  stayed? 

Ah,  so  let  it  not  be! 

v 

Not  for  revenge  or  affright, 
Pride,  or  a  tyrannous  lust, 
Cast  from  thee  the  crown  of  thy  praise. 
Mercy  was  thine  in  thy  might; 
Strong  when  thou  wert,  thou  wert  just; 
Now,  in  the  wrong-doing  days, 
Cleave  thou,  thou  at  least,  to  the  right. 

vi 

How  should  one  charge  thee,  how  sway, 
Save  by  the  memories  that  were? 
Not  thy  gold  nor  the  strength  of  thy  ships, 
Nor  the  might  of  thine  armies  at  bay, 
Made  thee,  mother,  most  fair; 
But  a  word  from  republican  lips 
Said  in  thy  name  in  thy  day. 

vii 

Hast  thou  said  it,  and  hast  thou  forgot? 
Is  thy  praise  in  thine  ears  as  a  scoff? 
Blood  of  men  guiltless  was  shed, 
Children,  and  souls  without  spot, 
Shed,  but  in  places  far  off; 
"Let  slaughter  no  more  be, "said 
Milton;  and  slaughter  was  not. 


183 


viii 

Was  it  not  said  of  thee  too, 
Now,  but  now,  by  thy  foes, 
By  the  slaves  that  had  slain  their  France, 
And  thee  would  slay  as  they  slew  - 
"Down  with  her  walls  that  enclose 
Freemen  that  eye  us  askance, 
Fugitives,  men  that  are  true! " 

ix 

This  was  thy  praise  or  thy  blame 
From  bondsman  or  freeman  -  to  be 
Pure  from  pollution  of  slaves, 
Clean  of  their  sins,  and  thy  name 
Bloodless,  innocent,  free; 
Now  if  thou  be  not,  thy  waves 
Wash  not  from  off  thee  thy  shame. 

x 

Freeman  he  is  not,  but  slave, 
Whoso  in  fear  for  the  State 
Cries  for  surety  of  blood, 
Help  of  gibbet  and  grave; 
Neither  is  any  land  great 
Whom,  in  her  fear-stricken  mood, 
These  things  only  can  save. 

xi 

Lo,  how  fair  from  afar, 
Taintless  of  tyranny,  stands 
Thy  mighty  daughter,  for  years 
Who  trod  the  winepress  of  war; 
Shines  with  immaculate  hands; 
Slays  not  a  foe,  neither  fears; 
Stains  not  peace  with  a  scar. 


184 


xii 

Be  not  as  tyrant  or  slave, 
England;  be  not  as  these, 
Thou  that  wert  other  than  they. 
Stretch  out  thine  hand,  but  to  save; 
Put  forth  thy  strength,  and  release; 
Lest  there  arise,  if  thou  slay, 
Thy  shame  as  a  ghost  from  the  grave. 

November  20, 1867 


185 


PERINDE  AC  CADAVER 


'N  a  vision  Liberty  stood 
By  the  childless  charm-stricken  bed 
Where,  barren  of  glory  and  good, 
.  Knowing  nought  if  she  would  not  or  would, 
England  slept  with  her  dead. 

Her  face  that  the  foam  had  whitened, 

Her  hands  that  were  strong  to  strive, 
Her  eyes  whence  battle  had  lightened, 
Over  all  was  a  drawn  shroud  tightened 
To  bind  her  asleep  and  alive. 

She  turned  and  laughed  in  her  dream 

With  grey  lips  arid  and  cold; 
She  saw  not  the  face  as  a  beam 
Burn  on  her,  but  only  a  gleam 

Through  her  sleep  as  of  new-stamped  gold. 

But  the  goddess,  with  terrible  tears 
In  the  light  of  her  down-drawn  eyes, 

Spake  fire  in  the  dull  sealed  ears; 

'Thou,  sick  with  slumbers  and  fears, 
Wilt  thou  sleep  now  indeed  or  arise? 

"With  dreams  6"  with  words  &  with  light 

Memories  and  empty  desires 
Thou  hast  wrapped  thyself  round  all  night; 
Thou  hast  shut  up  thine  heart  from  the  right, 

And  warmed  thee  at  burnt-out  fires. 


186 


"Yet  once  if  I  smote  at  thy  gate, 

Thy  sons  would  sleep  not,  but  heard; 
O  thou  that  wast  found  so  great, 
Art  thou  smitten  with  folly  or  fate 

That  thy  sons  have  forgotten  my  word? 

"O  Cromwell's  mother,  O  breast 

That  suckled  Milton!  thy  name 
That  was  beautiful  then,  that  was  blest, 
Is  it  wholly  discrowned  and  deprest, 

Trodden  under  by  sloth  into  shame? 

"Why  wilt  thou  hate  me  and  die? 

For  none  can  hate  me  and  live. 
What  ill  have  I  done  to  thee?  why 
Wilt  thou  turn  from  me  fighting,  &  fly, 

Who  would  follow  thy  feet  &  forgive? 

'Thou  hast  seen  me  stricken,  and  said, 

What  is  it  to  me?  I  am  strong: 
Thou  hast  seen  me  bowed  down  on  my  dead 
And  laughed  and  lifted  thine  head, 

And  washed  thine  hands  of  my  wrong. 

'Thou  hast  put  out  the  soul  of  thy  sight; 

Thou  hast  sought  to  my  foemen  as  friend, 
To  my  traitors  that  kiss  me  and  smite, 
To  the  kingdoms  and  empires  of  night 

That  begin  with  the  darkness,  and  end. 

'Turn  thee,  awaken,  arise, 

With  the  light  that  is  risen  on  the  lands, 
With  the  change  of  the  fresh-coloured  skies; 
Set  thine  eyes  on  mine  eyes, 

Lay  thy  hands  in  my  hands." 


187 


She  moved  and  mourned  as  she  heard, 

Sighed  and  shifted  her  place, 
As  the  wells  of  her  slumber  were  stirred 
By  the  music  and  wind  of  the  word, 
Then  turned  and  covered  her  face. 

"Ah,"  she  said  in  her  sleep, 

"Is  mj  work  not  done  with  and  done? 
Is  there  corn  for  my  sickle  to  reap? 
And  strange  is  the  pathway,  and  steep, 

And  sharp  overhead  is  the  sun. 

"I  have  done  thee  service  enough, 
Loved  thee  enough  in  my  day; 
Now  nor  hatred  nor  love 
Nor  hardly  remembrance  thereof 
Lives  in  me  to  lighten  my  way. 

"And  is  it  not  well  with  us  here? 

Is  change  as  good  as  is  rest? 
What  hope  should  move  me,  or  fear, 
That  eye  should  open  or  ear, 

Who  have  long  since  won  what  is  best? 

"Where  among  us  are  such  things 
As  turn  men's  hearts  into  hell? 
Have  we  not  queens  without  stings, 
Scotched  princes,  and  fangless  kings? 
Yea," she  said,  "we  are  well. 

"We  have  filed  the  teeth  of  the  snake 
Monarchy,  how  should  it  bite? 

Should  the  slippery  slow  thing  wake, 

It  will  not  sting  for  my  sake; 
Yea," she  said,  "I  do  right." 


188 


So  spake  she,  drunken  with  dreams, 

Mad;  but  again  in  her  ears 
A  voice  as  of  storm-swelled  streams 
Spake;  "No  brave  shame  then  redeems 

Thy  lusts  of  sloth  and  thy  fears? 

'Thy  poor  lie  slain  of  thine  hands, 

Their  starved  limbs  rot  in  thy  sight; 
As  a  shadow  the  ghost  of  thee  stands 
Among  men  living  and  lands, 
And  stirs  not  leftward  or  right. 

"  Freeman  he  is  not,  but  slave, 
Who  stands  not  out  on  my  side; 

His  own  hand  hollows  his  grave, 

Nor  strength  is  in  me  to  save 

Where  strength  is  none  to  abide. 

'Time  shall  tread  on  his  name 
That  was  written  for  honour  of  old, 

Who  hath  taken  in  change  for  fame 

Dust,  and  silver,  and  shame, 
Ashes,  and  iron,  and  gold." 


MONOTONES 


ECAUSE  there  is  but  one  truth; 
Because  there  is  but  one  banner; 
Because  there  is  but  one  light; 
Because  we  have  with  us  our  youth 
Once,  and  one  chance  and  one  manner 
Of  service,  and  then  the  night; 

Because  we  have  found  not  yet 
Any  way  for  the  world  to  follow 

Save  only  that  ancient  way; 
Whosoever  forsake  or  forget, 
Whose  faith  soever  be  hollow, 
Whose  hope  soever  grow  grey; 

Because  of  the  watchwords  of  kings 
That  are  many  &  strange  &  unwritten, 
Diverse,  and  our  watchword  is  one; 
Therefore,  though  seven  be  the  strings, 
One  string,  if  the  harp  be  smitten, 
Sole  sounds,  till  the  tune  be  done; 

Sounds  without  cadence  or  change 
In  a  weary  monotonous  burden, 

Be  the  keynote  of  mourning  or  mirth; 
Free,  but  free  not  to  range; 

Taking  for  crown  and  for  guerdon 
No  man's  praise  upon  earth; 


190 


Saying  one  sole  word  evermore, 

In  the  ears  of  the  charmed  world  saying, 

Charmed  by  spells  to  its  death; 
One  that  chanted  of  yore 

To  a  tune  of  the  sword-sweep's  playing 
In  the  lips  of  the  dead  blew  breath; 

Therefore  I  set  not  mine  hand 

To  the  shifting  of  changed  modulations, 

To  the  smiting  of  manifold  strings; 
While  the  thrones  of  the  throned  men  stand, 
One  song  for  the  morning  of  nations, 
One  for  the  twilight  of  kings. 

One  chord,  one  word,  and  one  way, 
One  hope  as  our  law,  one  heaven, 

Till  slain  be  the  great  one  wrong; 
Till  the  people  it  could  not  slay, 
Risen  up,  have  for  one  star  seven, 
For  a  single,  a  sevenfold  song. 


191 


THE  OBLATION 

A  nothing  more  of  me,  sweet; 
Ml  I  can  give  you  I  give. 
Heart  of  my  heart,  were  it  more, 
More  would  be  laid  at  your  feet: 
Love  that  should  help  you  to  live, 
Song  that  should  spur  you  to  soar. 

All  things  were  nothing  to  give 
Once  to  have  sense  of  you  more, 

Touch  you  &  taste  of  you  sweet, 
Think  you  and  breathe  you  and  live, 
Swept  of  your  wings  as  they  soar, 
Trodden  by  chance  of  your  feet. 

I  that  have  love  and  no  more 
Give  you  but  love  of  you,  sweet: 

He  that  hath  more,  let  him  give; 
He  that  hath  wings,  let  him  soar; 
Mine  is  the  heart  at  your  feet 
Here,  that  must  love  you  to  live. 


192 


A  YEAR'S  BURDEN 
1870 

IRE  and  wild  light  of  hope  and  doubt  and  fear, 
Wind  of  swift  change,  &  clouds  &  hours  that  veer 
As  the  storm  shifts  of  the  tempestuous  year; 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 

Hope  sits  yet  hiding  her  war- wearied  eyes, 
Doubt  sets  her  forehead  earthward  &  denies, 
But  fear  brought  hand  to  hand  with  danger  dies, 
Dies  and  is  burnt  up  in  the  fire  of  fight. 

Hearts  bruised  with  loss  &  eaten  through  with  shame 
Turn  at  the  time's  touch  to  devouring  flame; 
Grief  stands  as  one  that  knows  not  her  own  name, 
Nor  if  the  star  she  sees  bring  day  or  night. 

No  song  breaks  with  it  on  the  violent  air, 
But  shrieks  of  shame,  defeat,  and  brute  despair; 
Yet  something  at  the  star's  heart  far  up  there 
Burns  as  a  beacon  in  our  shipwrecked  sight. 

O  strange  fierce  light  of  presage,  unknown  star, 
Whose  tongue  shall  tell  us  what  thy  secrets  are, 
What  message  trembles  in  thee  from  so  far? 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 

From  shores  laid  waste  across  an  iron  sea 
Where  the  waifs  drift  of  hopes  that  were  to  be, 
Across  the  red  rolled  foam  we  look  for  thee, 
Across  the  fire  we  look  up  for  the  light. 


cc  193 


From  days  laid  waste  across  disastrous  years, 
From  hopes  cut  down  across  a  world  of  fears, 
We  gaze  with  eyes  too  passionate  for  tears, 

Where  faith  abides  though  hope  be  put  to  flight. 

Old  hope  is  dead,  the  grey-haired  hope  grown  blind 
That  talked  with  us  of  old  things  out  of  mind, 
Dreams,  deeds  and  men  the  world  has  left  behind; 
Yet,  though  hope  die,  faith  lives  in  hope's  despite. 

Ay,  with  hearts  fixed  on  death  and  hopeless  hands 
We  stand  about  our  banner  while  it  stands 
Above  but  one  field  of  the  ruined  lands; 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 

Though  France  were  given  for  prey  to  bird  6-  beast, 
Though  Rome  were  rent  in  twain  of  king  &  priest, 
The  soul  of  man,  the  soul  is  safe  at  least 

That  gives  death  life  &  dead  men  hands  to  smite. 

Are  ye  so  strong,  O  kings,  O  strong  men?  Nay, 
Waste  all  ye  will  and  gather  all  ye  may, 
Yet  one  thing  is  there  that  ye  shall  not  slay, 
Even  thought,  that  fire  nor  iron  can  affright. 

The  woundless  and  invisible  thought  that  goes 
Free  throughout  time  as  north  or  south  wind  blows, 
Far  throughout  space  as  east  or  west  sea  flows, 
And  all  dark  things  before  it  are  made  bright. 

Thy  thought,  thy  word,  O  soul  republican, 
O  spirit  of  life,  O  God  whose  name  is  man: 
What  sea  of  sorrows  but  thy  sight  shall  span? 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 


194 


With  all  its  coils  crushed,  all  its  rings  uncurled, 
The  one  most  poisonous  worm  that  soiled  the  world 
Is  wrenched  from  off  the  throat  of  man,  and  hurled 
Into  deep  hell  from  empire's  helpless  height. 

Time  takes  no  more  infection  of  it  now; 
Like  a  dead  snake  divided  of  the  plough, 
The  rotten  thing  lies  cut  in  twain;  but  thou, 
Thy  fires  shall  heal  us  of  the  serpent's  bite. 

Ay,  with  red  cautery  and  a  burning  brand 
Purge  thou  the  leprous  leaven  of  the  land; 
Take  to  thee  fire,  and  iron  in  thine  hand, 

Till  blood  &  tears  have  washed  the  soiled  limbs  white. 

We  have  sinned  against  thee  in  dreams  &  wicked  sleep; 
Smite,  we  will  shrink  not;  strike,  we  will  not  weep; 
Let  the  heart  feel  thee;  let  thy  wound  go  deep; 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 

Wound  us  with  love,  pierce  us  with  longing,  make 

Our  souls  thy  sacrifices;  turn  and  take 

Our  hearts  for  our  sin-offerings  lest  they  break, 

And  mould  them  with  thine  hands  &  give  them  might. 

Then,  when  the  cup  of  ills  is  drained  indeed, 
Will  we  come  to  thee  with  our  wounds  that  bleed, 
With  famished  mouths  &  hearts  that  thou  shalt  feed, 
And  see  thee  worshipped  as  the  world's  delight. 

There  shall  be  no  more  wars  nor  kingdoms  won, 
But  in  thy  sight  whose  eyes  are  as  the  sun 
All  names  shall  be  one  name,  all  nations  one, 
All  souls  of  men  in  man's  one  soul  unite. 

O  sea  whereon  men  labour,  O  great  sea 
That  heaven  seems  one  with,  shall  these  things  not  be? 
O  earth,  our  earth,  shall  time  not  make  us  free? 
Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the  right. 


EPILOGUE 


ETWEEN  the  wave-ridge  and  the  strand 
I  let  you  forth  in  sight  of  land, 
Songs  that  with  storm- crossed  wings  6*  eyes 
Strain  eastward  till  the  darkness  dies; 
Let  signs  and  beacons  fall  or  stand, 

And  stars  and  balefires  set  and  rise; 
Ye,  till  some  lordlier  lyric  hand 

Weave  the  beloved  brows  their  crown, 
At  the  beloved  feet  lie  down. 

O,  whatsoever  of  life  or  light 

Love  hath  to  give  you,  what  of  might 
Or  heart  or  hope  is  yours  to  live, 
I  charge  you  take  in  trust  to  give 

For  very  love's  sake,  in  whose  sight, 
Through  poise  of  hours  alternative 

And  seasons  plumed  with  light  or  night, 
Ye  live  and  move  and  have  your  breath 
To  sing  with  on  the  ridge  of  death. 

I  charge  you  faint  not  all  night  through 

For  love's  sake  that  was  breathed  on  you 
To  be  to  you  as  wings  and  feet 
For  travel,  and  as  blood  to  heat 

And  sense  of  spirit  to  renew 

And  bloom  of  fragrance  to  keep  sweet 

And  fire  of  purpose  to  keep  true 
The  life,  if  life  in  such  things  be, 
That  I  would  give  you  forth  of  me. 

196 


Out  where  the  breath  of  war  may  bear, 

Out  in  the  rank  moist  reddened  air 
That  sounds  6-  smells  of  death,  &  hath 
No  light  but  death's  upon  its  path 

Seen  through  the  black  wind's  tangled  hair, 
I  send  you  past  the  wild  time's  wrath 

To  find  his  face  who  bade  you  bear 
Fruit  of  his  seed  to  faith  and  love, 
That  he  may  take  the  heart  thereof. 

By  day  or  night,  by  sea  or  street, 

Fly  till  ye  find  and  clasp  his  feet 
And  kiss  as  worshippers  who  bring 
Too  much  love  on  their  lips  to  sing, 

But  with  hushed  heads  accept  and  greet 
The  presence  of  some  heavenlier  thing 

In  the  near  air;  so  may  ye  meet 
His  eyes,  and  droop  not  utterly 
For  shame's  sake  at  the  light  you  see. 

Not  utterly  struck  spiritless 

For  shame's  sake  and  un worthiness 

Of  these  poor  forceless  hands  that  come 
Empty,  these  lips  that  should  be  dumb, 

This  love  whose  seal  can  but  impress 
These  weak  word-offerings  wearisome 

Whose  blessings  have  not  strength  to  bless 
Nor  lightnings  fire  to  burn  up  aught 
Nor  smite  with  thunders  of  their  thought. 

One  thought  they  have,  even  love;  one  light, 
Truth,  that  keeps  clear  the  sun  by  night; 

One  chord,  of  faith  as  of  a  lyre; 

One  heat,  of  hope  as  of  a  fire; 
One  heart,  one  music,  and  one  might, 

One  flame,  one  altar,  and  one  choir; 
And  one  man's  living  head  in  sight 

Who  said,  when  all  time's  sea  was  foam, 

"Let  there  be  Rome,"- &  there  was  Rome. 


197 


As  a  star  set  in  space  for  token 

Like  a  live  word  of  God's  mouth  spoken, 
Visible  sound,  light  audible, 
In  the  great  darkness  thick  as  hell 

A  stanchless  flame  of  love  unsloken, 
A  sign  to  conquer  and  compel, 

A  law  to  stand  in  heaven  unbroken 

Whereby  the  sun  shines,  &  wherethrough 
Time's  eldest  empires  are  made  new; 

So  rose  up  on  our  generations 

That  light  of  the  most  ancient  nations, 

Law,  life,  and  light,  on  the  world's  way, 

The  very  God  of  very  day, 
The  sun-god;  from  their  star-like  stations 

Far  down  the  night  in  disarray 
Fled,  crowned  with  fires  of  tribulations, 

The  suns  of  sunless  years,  whose  light 

And  life  and  law  were  of  the  night. 

The  naked  kingdoms  quenched  and  stark 

Drave  with  their  dead  things  down  the  dark, 
Helmless;  their  whole  world,  throne  by  throne, 
Fell,  and  its  whole  heart  turned  to  stone, 

Hopeless;  their  hands  that  touched  our  ark 
Withered;  and  lo,  aloft,  alone, 

On  time's  white  waters  man's  one  bark, 
Where  the  red  sundawn's  open  eye 
Lit  the  soft  gulf  of  low  green  sky. 

So  for  a  season  piloted 

It  sailed  the  sunlight,  and  struck  red 
With  fire  of  dawn  reverberate 
The  wan  face  of  incumbent  fate 

That  paused  half  pitying  overhead 
And  almost  had  foregone  the  freight 

Of  those  dark  hours  the  next  day  bred 
For  shame,  and  almost  had  forsworn 
Service  of  night  for  love  of  morn. 

198 


Then  broke  the  whole  night  in  one  blow, 

Thundering;  then  all  hell  with  one  throe 
Heaved,  &  brought  forth  beneath  the  stroke 
Death;  and  all  dead  things  moved  &  woke 

That  the  dawn's  arrows  had  brought  low, 
At  the  great  sound  of  night  that  broke 

Thundering,  6*  all  the  old  world-wide  woe; 
And  under  night's  loud-sounding  dome 
Men  sought  her,  and  she  was  not  Rome. 

Still  with  blind  hands  and  robes  blood-wet 
Night  hangs  on  heaven,  reluctant  yet, 

With  black  blood  dripping  from  her  eyes 

On  the  soiled  lintels  of  the  skies, 
With  brows  and  lips  that  thirst  and  threat, 

Heart-sick  with  fear  lest  the  sun  rise, 
And  aching  with  her  fires  that  set, 

And  shuddering  ere  dawn  bursts  her  bars, 

Burns  out  with  all  her  beaten  stars. 

In  this  black  wind  of  war  they  fly 
Now,  ere  that  hour  be  in  the  sky 

That  brings  back  hope,  &  memory  back, 

And  light  and  law  to  lands  that  lack; 
That  spiritual  sweet  hour  whereby 

The  bloody-handed  night  and  black 
Shall  be  cast  out  of  heaven  to  die; 

Kingdom  by  kingdom,  crown  by  crown, 

The  fires  of  darkness  are  blown  down. 

Yet  heavy,  grievous  yet  the  weight 
Sits  on  us  of  imperfect  fate. 

From  wounds  of  other  days  and  deeds 

Still  this  day's  breathing  body  bleeds; 
Still  kings  for  fear  and  slaves  for  hate 

Sow  lives  of  men  on  earth  like  seeds 
In  the  red  soil  they  saturate; 

And  we,  with  faces  eastward  set, 

Stand  sightless  of  the  morning  yet. 

199 


And  many  for  pure  sorrow's  sake 

Look  back  and  stretch  back  hands  to  take 
Gifts  of  night's  giving,  ease  and  sleep, 
Flowers  of  night's  grafting,  strong  to  steep 

The  soul  in  dreams  it  will  not  break, 
Songs  of  soft  hours  that  sigh  and  sweep 

Its  lifted  eyelids  nigh  to  wake 

With  subtle  plumes  and  lulling  breath 
That  soothe  its  weariness  to  death. 

And  many,  called  of  hope  and  pride, 

Fall  ere  the  sunrise  from  our  side. 

Fresh  lights  and  rumours  of  fresh  fames 
That  shift  and  veer  by  night  like  flames, 

Shouts  &  blown  trumpets,  ghosts  that  glide 
Calling,  and  hail  them  by  dead  names, 

Fears,  angers,  memories,  dreams  divide 
Spirit  from  spirit,  and  wear  out 
Strong  hearts  of  men  with  hope  &  doubt. 

Till  time  beget  and  sorrow  bear 

The  soul-sick  eyeless  child  despair, 
That  comes  among  us,  mad  and  blind, 
With  counsels  of  a  broken  mind, 

Tales  of  times  dead  and  woes  that  were, 
And,  prophesying  against  mankind, 

Shakes  out  the  horror  of  her  hair 
To  take  the  sunlight  with  its  coils 
And  hold  the  living  soul  in  toils. 

By  many  ways  of  death  and  moods 
Souls  pass  into  their  servitudes. 

Their  young  wings  weaken,  plume  by  plume 

Drops,  and  their  eyelids  gather  gloom 
And  close  against  man's  frauds  and  feuds, 

And  their  tongues  call  they  know  not  whom 
To  help  in  their  vicissitudes; 

For  many  slaveries  are,  but  one 

Liberty,  single  as  the  sun. 

200 


One  light,  one  law,  that  burns  up  strife, 

And  one  sufficiency  of  life. 

Self-stablished,  the  sufficing  soul 
Hears  the  loud  wheels  of  changes  roll, 

Sees  against  man  man  bare  the  knife, 
Sees  the  world  severed,  and  is  whole; 

Sees  force  take  dowerless  fraud  to  wife, 
And  fear  from  fraud's  incestuous  bed 
Crawl  forth  and  smite  his  father  dead: 

Sees  death  made  drunk  with  war,  sees  time 
Weave  many-coloured  crime  with  crime, 

State  overthrown  on  ruining  state, 

And  dares  not  be  disconsolate. 
Only  the  soul  hath  feet  to  climb, 

Only  the  soul  hath  room  to  wait, 
Hath  brows  and  eyes  to  hold  sublime 

Above  all  evil  and  all  good, 

All  strength  and  all  decrepitude. 

She  only,  she  since  earth  began, 

The  many-minded  soul  of  man, 
From  one  incognizable  root 
That  bears  such  divers-coloured  fruit, 

Hath  ruled  for  blessing  or  for  ban 
The  flight  of  seasons  and  pursuit; 

She  regent,  she  republican, 

With  wide  and  equal  eyes  and  wings 
Broods  on  things  born  &  dying  things. 

Even  now  for  love  or  doubt  of  us 
The  hour  intense  and  hazardous 

Hangs  high  with  pinions  vibrating 

Whereto  the  light  &  darkness  cling, 
Dividing  the  dim  season  thus, 

And  shakes  from  one  ambiguous  wing 
Shadow,  and  one  is  luminous, 

And  day  falls  from  it;  so  the  past 

Torments  the  future  to  the  last, 
dd  201 


And  we  that  cannot  hear  or  see 
The  sounds  and  lights  of  liberty, 

The  witness  of  the  naked  God 

That  treads  on  burning  hours  unshod 
With  instant  feet  un wounded;  we 

That  can  trace  only  where  he  trod 
By  fire  in  heaven  or  storm  at  sea, 

Not  know  the  very  present  whole 

And  naked  nature  of  the  soul; 

We  that  see  wars  and  woes  and  kings, 

And  portents  of  enormous  things, 
Empires,  and  agonies,  and  slaves, 
And  whole  flame  of  town-swallowing  graves; 

That  hear  the  harsh  hours  clap  sharp  wings 
Above  the  roar  of  ranks  like  waves, 

From  wreck  to  wreck  as  the  world  swings; 
Know  but  that  men  there  are  who  see 
And  hear  things  other  far  than  we. 

By  the  light  sitting  on  their  brows, 

The  fire  wherewith  their  presence  glows. 

The  music  falling  with  their  feet, 

The  sweet  sense  of  a  spirit  sweet 
That  with  their  speech  or  motion  grows 

And  breathes  6"  burns  men's  hearts  with  heat; 
By  these  signs  there  is  none  but  knows 

Men  who  have  life  and  grace  to  give, 

Men  who  have  seen  the  soul  and  live. 

By  the  strength  sleeping  in  their  eyes, 
The  lips  whereon  their  sorrow  lies 

Smiling,  the  lines  of  tears  unshed, 

The  large  divine  look  of  one  dead 
That  speaks  out  of  the  breathless  skies 

In  silence,  when  the  light  is  shed 
Upon  man's  soul  of  memories; 

The  supreme  look  that  sets  love  free, 

The  look  of  stars  and  of  the  sea; 


202 


By  the  strong  patient  godhead  seen 
Implicit  in  their  mortal  mien, 

The  conscience  of  a  God  held  still 

And  thunders  ruled  by  their  own  will 
And  fast-bound  fires  that  might  burn  clean 

This  worldly  air  that  foul  things  fill, 
And  the  afterglow  of  what  has  been, 

That,  passing,  shows  us  without  word 

What  they  have  seen,  what  they  have  heard; 

By  all  these  keen  and  burning  signs 
The  spirit  knows  them  and  divines. 

In  bonds,  in  banishment,  in  grief, 

Scoffed  at  and  scourged  with  unbelief, 
Foiled  with  false  trusts  and  thwart  designs, 

Stripped  of  green  days  and  hopes  in  leaf, 
Their  mere  bare  body  of  glory  shines 

Higher,  and  man  gazing  surelier  sees 

What  light,  what  comfort  is  of  these. 

So  I  now  gazing;  till  the  sense 
Being  set  on  fire  of  confidence 

Strains  itself  sunward,  feels  out  far 

Beyond  the  bright  and  morning  star, 
Beyond  the  extreme  wave's  refluence, 

To  where  the  fierce  first  sunbeams  are 
Whose  fire  intolerant  and  intense 

As  birthpangs  whence  day  burns  to  be 

Parts  breathless  heaven  from  breathing  sea. 

I  see  not,  know  not,  and  am  blest, 
Master,  who  know  that  thou  knowest, 

Dear  lord  and  leader,  at  whose  hand 

The  first  days  and  the  last  days  stand, 
With  scars  and  crowns  on  head  and  breast, 

That  fought  for  love  of  the  sweet  land 
Or  shall  fight  in  her  latter  quest; 

All  the  days  armed  and  girt  and  crowned 

Whose  glories  ring  thy  glory  round. 

203 


Thou  sawest,  when  all  the  world  was  blind, 
The  light  that  should  be  of  mankind, 

The  very  day  that  was  to  be; 

And  how  shalt  thou  not  sometime  see 
Thy  city  perfect  to  thy  mind 

Stand  face  to  living  face  with  thee, 
And  no  miscrowned  man's  head  behind; 

The  hearth  of  man,  the  human  home, 

The  central  flame  that  shall  be  Rome? 

As  one  that  ere  a  June  day  rise 

Makes  seaward  for  the  dawn,  and  tries 
The  water  with  delighted  limbs 
That  taste  the  sweet  dark  sea,  &  swims 

Right  eastward  under  strengthening  skies, 
And  sees  the  gradual  rippling  rims 

Of  waves  whence  day  breaks  blossom-wise 
Take  fire  ere  light  peer  well  above, 
And  laughs  from  all  his  heart  with  love; 

And  softlier  swimming  with  raised  head 

Feels  the  full  flower  of  morning  shed 
And  fluent  sunrise  round  him  rolled 
That  laps  and  laves  his  body  bold 

With  fluctuant  heaven  in  water's  stead, 
And  urgent  through  the  growing  gold 

Strikes,  and  sees  all  the  spray  flash  red, 
And  his  soul  takes  the  sun,  and  yearns 
For  joy  wherewith  the  sea's  heart  burns; 

So  the  soul  seeking  through  the  dark 

Heavenward,  a  dove  without  an  ark, 
Transcends  the  unnavigable  sea 
Of  years  that  wear  out  memory; 

So  calls,  a  sunward-singing  lark, 

In  the  ear  of  souls  that  should  be  free; 

So  points  them  toward  the  sun  for  mark 
Who  steer  not  for  the  stress  of  waves, 
And  seek  strange  helmsmen,  &  are  slaves. 

204 


For  if  the  swimmer's  eastward  eye 

Must  see  no  sunrise  -  must  put  by 
The  hope  that  lifted  him  and  led 
Once,  to  have  light  about  his  head, 

To  see  beneath  the  clear  low  sky 

The  green  foam-whitened  wave  wax  red 

And  all  the  morning's  banner  fly- 

Then,  as  earth's  helpless  hopes  go  down, 
Let  earth's  self  in  the  dark  tides  drown. 

Yea,  if  no  morning  must  behold 
Man,  other  than  were  they  now  cold, 

And  other  deeds  than  past  deeds  done, 

Nor  any  near  or  far-off  sun 
Salute  him  risen  and  sunlike-souled, 

Free,  boundless,  fearless,  perfect,  one, 
Let  man's  world  die  like  worlds  of  old, 

And  here  in  heaven's  sight  only  be 

The  sole  sun  on  the  worldless  sea. 


20  ) 


NOTES  TO  SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE 


NOTES  TO  SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE 


Page  3.  'That  called  on  Cotys  by  her  name." 

ZEMNA  KOTYZ  EN  TOIZ  HAHNOIZ. 

j£sch.  Fr.  54-HAHNOI. 

• 

Page  80.  "Was  it  Love  brake  forth  flower- fashion, a  bird  with  gold  on  his  wings?" 

Ar.  Av.  696. 

Page  13$.  'That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily." 

Her  pilgrimage  to  Avignon  to  recall  the  Pope  into  Italy  as  its  redeemer 
from  the  distractions  of  the  time  is  of  course  the  central  act  of  St  Catherine's 
life,  the  great  abiding  sign  of  the  greatness  of  spirit  and  genius  of  heroism 
which  distinguished  this  daughter  of  the  people,  and  should  yet  keep  her 
name  fresh  above  the  holy  horde  of  saints,  in  other  records  than  the  calendar; 
but  there  is  no  less  significance  in  the  story  which  tells  how  she  succeeded  in 
humanizing  a  criminal  under  sentence  of  death,  &  given  over  by  the  priests 
as  a  soul  doomed  and  desperate;  how  the  man  thus  raised  &  melted  out  of  his 
fierce  and  brutal  despair  besought  her  to  sustain  him  to  the  last  by  her  pre- 
sence; how,  having  accompanied  him  with  comfort  and  support  to  the  very 
scaffold,  and  seen  his  head  fall,  she  took  it  up,  6"  turning  to  the  spectators  who 
stood  doubtful  whether  the  poor  wretch  could  be  "saved,"  kissed  it  in  sign  of 
her  faith  that  his  sins  were  forgiven  him.  The  high  and  fixed  passion  of  her 
heroic  temperament  gives  her  a  right  to  remembrance  and  honour  of  which 
the  miracle-mongers  have  done  their  best  to  deprive  her.  Cleared  of  all  the 
refuse  rubbish  of  thaumaturgy ,  her  life  would  deserve  a  chronicler  who  should 
do  justice  at  once  to  the  ardour  of  her  religious  imagination  and  to  a  thing  far 
rarer  and  more  precious  -  the  strength  and  breadth  of  patriotic  thought  and 
devotion  which  sent  this  girl  across  the  Alps  to  seek  the  living  symbol  of  Italian 
hope  and  unity,  &  bring  it  back  by  force  of  simple  appeal  in  the  name  of  God 

208 


and  of  the  country.  By  the  light  of  those  solid  &  actual  qualities  which  ensure 
to  her  no  ignoble  place  on  the  noble  roll  of  Italian  women  who  have  deserved 
well  of  Italy,  the  record  of  her  visions  and  ecstasies  may  be  read  without  con- 
temptuous intolerance  of  hysterical  disease.  The  rapturous  visionary  and  pas- 
sionate ascetic  was  in  plain  matters  of  this  earth  as  pure  6-  practical  a  heroine 
as  Joan  of  Arc. 

Page  137.  '  There  on  the  dim  side-chapel  wall." 

In  the  church  of  San  Domenico. 

Page  138.  "  But  blood  nor  tears  ye  love  not,  you. " 

In  the  Sienese  Academy  the  two  things  notable  to  me  were  the  detached 
wall-painting  by  Sodoma  of  the  tortures  of  Christ  bound  to  the  pillar,  and 
the  divine  though  mutilated  group  of  the  Graces  in  the  centre  of  the  main 
hall.  The  glory  and  beauty  of  ancient  sculpture  refresh  and  satisfy  beyond 
expression  a  sense  wholly  wearied  &  well-nigh  nauseated  with  contemplation 
of  endless  sanctities  and  agonies  attempted  by  mediaeval  art,  while  yet  as 
handless  as  accident  or  barbarism  has  left  the  sculptured  goddesses. 

Page  141.  "  Saw  all  Italian  things  save  one." 

0  patria  mia,  vedo  le  mura  e  gli  archi, 
E  le  colonne  e  i  simulacri  e  1'erme 
Torri  degli  avi  nostri; 

Ma  la  gloria  non  vedo 

Non  vedo  il  lauro  e  il  ferro  ond'  eran  carchi 

1  nostri  padri  antichi. 

Leopardi. 

Page  151.  "  Mother,  that  by  that  Pegasean  spring. " 

Call.  Lav.  Pall.  10.5-112. 

Page  199.  "  With  black  blood  dripping  from  her  eyes. " 

KAE  OMMATHN  STAZOYSIN  AIMA  AYS4>IAES. 

y£sch.  Cho.  10.58. 


209 


THESE  SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE  BY  ALGERNON  CHARLES 
SWINBURNE  WERE  PRINTED  AT  THE  FLORENCE  PRESS 
DURING  THE  MONTH  OF  NOVEMBER  MCMIX  &  ARE  SOLD 
FOR  THE  PRESS  BY  HARPER  6  BROTHERS  OF  NEW  YORK 


